


A Collection of Macro/Micro Prompt Short Stories

by Fandom-GT (slotting), slotting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural
Genre: Cock Vore, F/M, Giantess - Freeform, Giants, Growth, Humiliation, M/M, Macro/Micro, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Shrinking, Size Difference, Size Kink, Threesome - M/M/M, Unaware, Underwear entrapment, Vore, Watersports, dubcon, insertion, noncon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 66
Words: 76,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23457805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slotting/pseuds/Fandom-GT, https://archiveofourown.org/users/slotting/pseuds/slotting
Summary: This is the assembled collection of all of the prompt requests I've filled on my ask blog, "fandom-gt". Stories here range from aware to unaware, consensual to non-consensual to dubious consent, there may be elements of humiliation, watersports, fluff, somnophilia. Really, anything and everything, but it's all guaranteed NSFW microphilia macrophilia kinkness.This is literally just gratuitous niche porn.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Jo Harvelle/Dean Winchester, Maria Hill/Natasha Romanov, Meg Masters/Dean Winchester, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Sirius Black/Harry Potter, Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Comments: 29
Kudos: 192





	1. Forgotten Underwear Entrapment + Ginding with Pre-Serum Steve and Bucky

**Author's Note:**

> "Had another idea. Aware underwear entrapment (either consensual or non, but I think preferably con) turns to forgotten, which leads to grinding through at least one layer of cloth trying to deal with the delightful sensation seemingly coming from nowhere. -- bitty"

Steve’s drunk at the time, which isn’t surprising since he weighs all of a buck ten soaking wet. He always gets so playful when he’s had too many, a little too hands-on with Bucky’s tiny body, but Bucky doesn’t mind so much. He gets off on it a little, and he thinks Steve enjoys lording over someone smaller than him when he’s always belittled for out outside of their home.

One thing leads to another and Steve’s teasing him about being smaller than his dick, and that he could fit in his underwear with room to spare, and Bucky’s challenging him back saying to do it and see what happens.

And he actually _does_ this time. Bucky, not one to let someone call his bluff, gets to work. Steve was already hard to begin with, turned on by the humiliation play and the size comparisons and Bucky in general, and it only takes him about two minutes of licking and rubbing for Steve to finish in his underwear with a moan.

Bucky waits to be taken out.

And waits.

And then abruptly finds himself pinned under the weight of Steve’s hips, followed by the sound of asthmatic snoring.

The bastard passed out.

His waistband’s too snug, the elastic’s too strong, and even if Bucky could get himself out from under this skinny pelvis he knows from experience there’s no escaping the confines of his underwear without help. Frustrated and maybe a little amused, he finishes himself off too and resigns himself to a night’s sleep under body heat. He’s slept in worse places.

Steve wakes up a little hungover, a little still drunk, and a _lot_ late for work. Cursing under his breath, he slings on pants and a shirt that are rumpled and unpressed, tugging on one shoe and then the other before bolting out the door toward the supermarket where he runs the register.

All that jolting is a chaotic mess for Bucky, who’d been sound asleep right until Steve snapped himself out of bed and started jostling him all around with his panicked, thoughtless moving. 

Yelling up at him does nothing, it’s swallowed by the underwear and the pants and the distance. Prying himself out from under balls doesn’t do it either, so his intention is to get Steve’s attention by pounding on the most sensitive parts of him to get him to look down.

Truth be told, Steve forgot he put Bucky in there. Anything from the night before’s a black fog, a fuzzy brain, and so when his cock starts tingling and zinging with sensation he’s thinking it’s just the sight of the pretty girl standing on the train in front of him. He flushes red with embarrassment when he feels himself going half hard, and subtly turns to adjust his dick so that it’s curved up toward his belt instead of sticking straight out. 

For Bucky, it’s rigid and ungentle fingers digging around through the cloth until it finds him, smashing him up against the underside of a dick and dragging them both into position to be restrained by boxers and trousers. 

The train shakes and jiggles everyone on it, including the beautiful cleavage of the brunette that Steve’s doing his damnedest not to notice - and failing, as his mind sinks farther and farther toward the gutter for some inexplicable reason. Whatever she’s doing to him is making him so hard he’s twitching, tingling, rigid.

The walk to the market is brisk and hurried, and he does his best to hide his boner the whole way until he’s behind the register.

Fortunately, there’s nobody in the store right now - but he can’t leave the till to go to the back for a jerk-off session while he’s on the clock. If someone comes in trying to check out, the owner’ll kill him. Doubly so if someone skims money out of it.

He _also_ can’t take his dick out here, on the chance that a customer comes in and sees him.

Can’t ignore it, because he’s too damn hard, Christ, he could pound nails.

Only one thing for it. He braces his left arm on the counter, settles at the edge of his wooden stool, and - with his eyes fixed on the door in case he needs to stop - he grabs himself over his pants and starts massaging.

Steve’s fingers are steely, brutal things. They press _hard,_ grinding cloth into him and _him_ into cock, smushing him along the underside, griping him and rubbing him up and down in the same circular two or three inches. Then they start to _shake_ at the same time, roughly jerking himself off through the clothes and inadvertently finding incredible sensation at all the places Bucky’s stimulating him just by being there.

He comes silently, a small choked noise, a hot rolling throb that goes from Bucky’s toes all the way up past his head, and then he spills hot and wet down the front of his underwear, and all over Bucky’s body in the process. Those fingers work him through it, smearing him through slickness against his dick, milking out every bit of it and coaxing himself into afterglow.

Great. Twenty minutes into Steve’s six hour shift. Only five and a half to go.


	2. In which Sam sticks Bucky in Steve's condom on date night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I love your writing; you do this genre very well. Could I request a combination of a couple things? Specifically, insertion/cock vore, with that cock then being used for penetrative sex, so the micro is inside both a dick and an ass/vagina at the same time? (I've def seen you do insertion several times, really well, but I think it's only been with just hands or mouth outside.) Preferably either unaware or consensual, as the noncon kinda rubs me the wrong way most of the time. Thanks!"

“You gotta be kidding me.”

Sam is not, in fact, kidding him. Even if he is, staring up at a face the size of the god damn moon, Bucky’s not laughing. Sam is, though, with a big wide grin and teeth bigger than his entire body right now. 

“Re- _lax_ ,” he says, and it nearly blows Bucky’s eardrums out. He can feel the heat of breath coasting over him, and his eyes sting with the sharpness of fresh mint from his toothpaste. “It’s temporary. Called in a favor with a couple of wizards. Think about this the next time you wanna go stirring shit, huh?”

Bucky doesn’t get a chance to answer. Sam’s already resealing the foil on the condom wrapper, and slipping it back into Steve’s drawer.

Bucky’s trapped in gently lubricated latex and foil for nearly an hour. It spreads out in either direction around him as large as a king-sized bed, and it’s so thick his metal arm can’t manage to push itself through - or maybe it’s a combination of the latex being backed up by the foil of the wrapper. Just a little too much there, with not enough range of motion for him to properly _punch._

He spent a solid twenty minutes yelling at the top of his lungs, calling out Steve’s name, Sam’s name, cursing the asshole with every inch of breath he’s got. The sudden rumbling of movement has him thinking he’s been heard, doubly so when he feels the weight of gravity straining against him, pushing him into the latex even harder.

There’s a crinkling, the wall in front of him splits suddenly, and the first thing Bucky sees is Steve’s perfect white teeth and upper lip tearing away the wall before him like a titan-sized savior. 

“Thank God,” He rasps, voice raw, when tree-sized fingers slowly pull the condom out of the wrapper. 

Except that Steve’s big, blue eyes aren’t even on him in the slightest.

And then the world rushes down again, and as he’s rapidly lowered farther and farther from his best friend’s face, he realizes what it is Steve’s staring at.

His own cock.

Sam put him in the god damn condom on Steve’s date night.

Before him and rapidly sailing in his direction is a smooth, pink head clearly hard as hell and without a single speck of awareness that it’s chartering a course to line its slit up perfectly with Bucky’s body. By the time Bucky starts yelling again, the condom slams onto its target. It’s got a reservoir tip, but rolled up in those beginning stages it’s almost perfectly taut - not enough to crush him, but enough for only a foot or two of space before a slit the size of a window. Light streams in, filtered, from the clear latex behind him. He does his best to cling to it, but after Steve finishes rolling it down his length, he allows his entire dick to spring upright again.

Sudden force and then gravity _drops_ him. He lands feet-first, arms catching onto the soft, velvety curve of the head leading in, and Steve’s dick bobs through the air threatening to buck him loose his hold like the rodeo.

In the world outside, there’s a low and rumbling _mmmm_ sound. Another jolt, and Bucky realizes it lines up with the furious kicking of his own legs inside, scrambling for purchase and pushing against the flesh and nerves just inside Steve’s slit.

If he could read minds, he’d pick up on Steve thinking about how he’ll have to buy this brand of condom again - whatever stimulation agent they put in them feels nice already, tingling and sexy and pleasant. That’s about as much thought as Steve gives to the situation between his legs, before he’s crawling across a bed and settling into place on his back beneath his partner. 

Bucky can see out of the clear latex if he tilts his chin up. It’s just a little blurry, a little obfuscated like a dirty window or a shower door, but it doesn’t take a genius to piece together what it is looming overhead. Pink, fleshy, one round and dark hole approximately the size of the head of the cock he’s struggling to escape.

“STEVE-” Rips out of his throat, and he pounds a useless fist against the head of his best friend’s dick. “DON’T PUT ME IN THERE- I’M IN HERE- PLEASE DON’T PUT ME IN THERE-”

Steve’s cock jolts, and Sharon’s hips line up overhead. They descend rapidly, and the slippery passage beneath Bucky’s feet slickens up with a sudden trickle of precum that coaxes itself out behind his back. He dips another six or so inches, tugged down by a rolling pulse of muscle that seems almost intent on dragging him in. He’s down up to his chest, nearly his collarbone when Sharon descends enough that Steve’s tip makes contact with her folds. They roll all over the ceiling above him, they press down with unrelenting force, pushing his head and his shoulders down, down, down while Steve softly teases himself on her pussy.

He does that for a while, just gently rubbing his head and the underside of his cock against her sex, and every head-on nudge seems to push down on the spongy flesh and, in turn, Bucky.

He loses his hold, and finds himself bound tightly in a passage that squeezes him gently with every beat of Steve’s heart pushing blood into the member. Steve feels _something_ , some new and intense sort of stimulation, and it obliterates his willpower to keep himself out of his partner.

Slowly, gently, deliberately, he pulls her down onto him until he’s buried to the hilt.

The world around Bucky gets almost crushing. There hadn’t been much space to begin with, but with Sharon’s walls tightening up on Steve’s dick, with Steve’s dick responding by contracting, throbbing, pulsing with blood, it’s like he’s being buried alive in a flesh coffin. It’s like the cock itself is using Bucky’s body, contracting and squeezing around him to milk out pleasure of the sensation of him being inside it. Over his head, when Steve pulls out for a second a little light streams in - just enough for him to see the slit wink closed again, and then the return of that great force crushing him - the pulse of pleasure it brings, the surge of new precum.

He struggles, but that seems to make it worse. Steve must feel him, he surely must, because every time Bucky flails or pushes against his prison there’s another resounding, god-like moan from all around him and a tight, anaconda-like grip that snaps his body into its densest, tightest hold.

He sinks lower, pushed down by the viscous semen snaking past him. 

The twitching gets more frequent.

The world locks down, and does not unlock. 

The steady, sea-sick tide of back and forth subtly rocking him becomes faster, incomprehensibly shaking his entire being. 

There’s one hard, solid thump of blood with so much intensity it actually cracks his back under the pressure - and then a _force_ beneath his feet that propels him back up Steve’s shaft and into a pool of sodden latex, a blanket pressing down on him, trying to do its best to bury him in the flood of cum that threatens to drown him. What little he can make out outside of that are kneading walls of flesh, pink and grinding and gripping anything they can greedily.

He gets one long, terrifying look of Steve’s massive dick head ramming forward toward him, stopping just short of where he’s spilled - then pulling out, then ramming again. Wringing out every bit of semen it can - more than any man should be able to. 

As much as he doesn’t want to, he has to swim toward it - kicking and writhing through thick liquid before it drowns him, throwing his arms out to catch himself on the landmass of Steve’s cock so he can exhaustively pull himself out of the swimming pool’s worth of jizz. There, he catches his breath and waits for Steve to pull out.

He doesn’t.

He stays in as he softens gently, Sharon all around him, the two of them basking in intimacy and playing softly around with Steve’s half-hard cock.

Serum does interesting things to your refractory period, in case you didn’t know. Unfortunately, Bucky’s very, very familiar with how his libido became - multiple rounds, almost back to back weren’t uncommon for his masturbation sessions.

He’s going to fucking kill Sam with his bare hands.


	3. In which Pre-Serum Steve winds up trapped inside Bucky's balls - Part 1

It happens accidentally. They get a little careless, or rather - Bucky gets a little careless, lost in the throes in those mindless few minutes before an orgasm, following whatever seems hot and feels good at the time. This time, it’s thumbing Steve’s tiny body down into the slit of his cock again. The more embarrassed Steve gets, the smaller he gets, and the hotter Bucky thinks it is.

Bucky feels him going down, struggling all the way. It’s the hottest god damn thing he’s ever felt, and he deliberately paces himself to keep himself at the edge, struggling not to come so he can experience it as long as he can.

He squeezes the base of his cock, and that’s when he feels it.

Inside, Steve feels everything. Every pass of Bucky’s hand sliding up and down his shaft, tightening up where Steve is and then loosening as it coasts up. He feels every sharp throb, every rolling twitch of pleasure, and it’s an honest to god fight to keep himself from drowning on the precum that just keeps leaking up around him, lubricating the way down.

Not only is he embarrassed, he’s terrified. He knows Bucky can’t even hear him, no matter how loud he calls, not through the walls of flesh and the thunderous sound of his hand sliding up and down slick skin - let alone through his own ragged breathing and muttering. Steve can hear everything around him reverberating with moans and low, rumbling, “God, Steve, you feel so fucking good.”

He goes deeper.

He gets smaller.

His feet hit a surface finally, a soft wall that flexes beneath them. He tries to kick off against it like a diver breaking for the surface, and it causes the body around him to jerk, and a new, louder moan to nearly deafen him.

The wall opens, a sudden vacuum that sucks him down as sperm surges up past him. He’s drawn into the empty space beneath, and the wall closes up again.

Oh, god. The world around him slows from its chaotic shaking, spasming, twitching, to gentle barely-there movements like the sea tide. Bucky’s coasting through the afterglow of the best orgasm he’s ever had in his whole damn life, and only after that does he realize something’s amiss.

Steve goes searching, moving, feeling around his cage for that way out again. Bucky can feel it, a tingling, pleasant sensation deep down in his balls. If he hadn’t just come, he might be getting hard from it. Carefully, tentatively, he reaches down to start probing around them, manipulating and massaging them.

Around Steve, the world jiggles and shakes, nearly throwing him off his feet. From outside, that godlike voice fills everything, “STEVE? YOU IN THERE?”

He knows where he is. Fuck, he knows where he is - and he slams his fist against one of the fleshy walls. Knows Bucky can’t hear his, “Let me out, asshole!”

Bucky’s only answer is to humm softly, a pleased sound, as he gently bounces his sack with his fingers. 

“Feels kinda good with you in there, pal, but I guess we’re gonna have to get you out,” until the old alarm clock starts ringing across the room, the little hammer smacking back and forth on the bells, startling him. “Oh hell, I’m late for work. Sorry, buddy, you’re gonna have to sit tight in there for a few hours.”

Followed by the sudden upheaval of Steve’s world again as Bucky stands, the shaking and bouncing throwing him against the walls as he puts on his underwear. Bucky cups himself over them, muttering, “You’re gonna have to sit still in there or I’m not gonna be able to make it an hour without jerking off.”

Because it feels _amazing._ If he’d have known, he might’ve started keeping Steve in there earlier.


	4. In which Pre-Serum Steve winds up trapped inside Bucky's balls - Part 2

Bucky goes to work with a little extra bounce in his step. Quite literally, unfortunately for Steve, who found himself slipping farther and farther down during their daily ritual of humiliation play - only for things to go a little too far and get a little too out of hand. Landing hard and heavy in Bucky’s sack had been the trigger for an orgasm even Steve knew must’ve been something else, and the exit sealed up behind him right on time for Bucky to realize he had to head to work.

This ain’t part of what they agreed on. Bucky’s never been quite so thoughtless, quite so careless or dismissive of Steve’s autonomy before. They’ve been getting gradually more fast and loose when they play, but abandoning him in his own sack without being able to hear Steve screaming through his flesh is a new low.

The world churns around him, so hot he’s sweating, constantly shaken or jiggled or bounced into the walls of his prison. 

It’s not exactly an accident. Bucky can feel him in there, and it’s a strange, heavy, tingling heat that feels sort of like getting his testicle massaged from the inside. It’s something brand new and hot, like a direct hot poker stimulation on the part inside of his pelvis that his orgasm builds up in - his prostate, maybe, he thinks. All it really takes is Steve bouncing off of the inside of him somehow to get that pleasant zing, and so whenever he’s got a spare minute of privacy to himself, he’s gotten into the habit of tucking a hand down his pants to give his balls a little bounce.

They do it for him by themselves when he works, hauling boxes over head, jumping up onto a plank, hopping off a ladder - anything that gets him moving gets that zing straight into him, and he spends the entire day at least half hard.

He also has a strange sort of secret pleasure in this little hidden thing no one sees. When he slips off to take a piss, knowing the men in the urinals down from him have no idea that he’s got an entire guy in his balls is a little bit of a thrill. He tugs himself out, curls fingers around himself, and takes immense pleasure in the knowledge that Steve’s so close to him even now in the private act of draining his bladder. He tucks himself back inside his briefs, gives himself another little fondle and a little squeeze, and goes back to work.

The longer Bucky stays hard, the more his balls swell up and start to fill. It’s tolerable at first, but after hours of what amounts to edging, Steve’s seriously starting to get concerned. He’s got to palm at the walls to keep his chin above water. Pounding on the walls of his prison just seems to cause a fresh new flow of it into the room with him, and he’s been yelling at the top of his lungs begging Bucky to cum him out off and on for hours.

Eventually, work consumes Bucky. He exhausts himself in the way that only dock work can do, and after ten solid hours of busting his ass he’s sort of forgotten his best pal’s inside him. He’s dog-tired, fatigued, and as soon as he peels his clothes off he collapses face-down onto the bed.

He dozes, but his body sure as shit doesn’t forget about the thing that makes it feel so good. His dreams turn wet, hot, needy. The over-production and storage of semen needs a release, and Steve’s weight adds to that urgency. Bucky, in his sleep, starts to gently hump the mattress beneath him. Soft moans escape the back of his throat, muffled _tsss_ and _mmm_ sounds as his cock grows hard and his precum starts to escape. He spent too much of the day turned on, and the dirty grind of his dick against the mattress beneath him is absolutely involuntary.

Steve doesn’t know that, and he scrambles at his chance - pushes, pulls, grabs at the walls in a way that has Bucky moaning in his sleep. It’s just that he’s face down, and his scrotum’s at a bad angle, and Steve’s all twisted around from it - so when orgasm strikes his sleeping best friend, it does so suddenly and without preamble. It gushes from some place over Steve’s head, forced up over him while Bucky’s balls tighten and seize, throwing him off his footing and slamming himself hard down onto the ground beneath him.

Bucky comes wet and hot beneath his stomach, only ever brushing against the surface of wakefulness before he’s asleep again - Steve still stuck in a newly emptied prison, with no idea how long Bucky plans to keep him in there. Hungry, tired, exhausted, he winds up falling asleep after waiting for hours on his sleeping partner to cum him out again.


	5. Voyeur!Steve inside a sex toy

He didn’t actually realize how tight the fit would be until a little too late, but all things considered he ain’t complaining. He gets a front row, center stage view to the way Bucky’s thighs part for him, metal hand guiding the toy toward his entrance already slicked up with lube. Gets to watch his flesh hand work, slowly gliding over the dick that towers above him, balls rising and falling along with his breathing.

Bucky teases himself with the head of it, clear enough that it’s almost transparent, just shy of frosted glass. Gets so hard he’s got to start palming himself, murmuring a soft, “ _Yeah_ , Buck-” under his breath as Barnes idly nudges just the tip in and out like some recreation of the teasing Steve does to him when they’re intimate.

When he finally breaches, Bucky’s body clamps down on the toy so hard it nearly squeezes the breath out of Steve, and he _loves_ it. Thrusts his own cock up into the soft silicon, rutting against the inside of the toy like he can somehow hit the prostate he sees Bucky driving the head of his toy against over and over.

He gets to watch Bucky flex tight around it, feels every jerking subtle shift as he hammers it into himself, gets to watch his whole body lock down and spasm when he comes.

Best of all, he learns that day that Bucky leaves his toys in for hours after, and usually rides them again before he’s through.


	6. Micro-Sized Steve trapped in Bucky's pubic hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "steve being so weak that he gets tangled in buckys pubes and cant get out?? maybe bucky knows hes there and maybe not"

It’s been an ordeal, and it isn’t often that Steve Rogers gives up. Lord knows he’s tried with every ounce of gasping, wheezing strength a one hundred pound asthmatic can muster, but coils of hair like wires twist around his ankles, his wrists, even his waist. He’s screamed his lungs hoarse and nearly suffocated himself in the process, and all for naught. At one point a set of fingers came looming in like slow-motion, nails the size of mattresses slamming down into the hair around him and scraping so intensely, so loudly, so rigorously that Steve knows if they’d been over him they’d have ground him into nothing.

It’s around that point he stopped moving, out of sheer fear he’d tweak a pubic hair and get them grinding down on him next.

Looking down, Steve can see the base of a soft dick and either side of two massive, positively unimaginably large thighs. Above him, stretching stomach and… that’s it. He can’t tilt his head far enough back to see anything beyond just the curve of abs over his head, and it’s at that point Bucky stops being a person and starts being a _landscape_. Something much too large to even think of as human.

As he steps, the entire earth quakes. One rhythmic, near-deafening booming after another, gently jostling Steve and _certainly_ shaking the massive shaft beneath him. It nearly made him motion sick at first, this constant forward momentum, this thrust of just his best friend _walking_. He got used to it after a while, but as time passed new challenges arose. 

Bucky has a morning routine that Steve landed just in time to experience, as unfortunate as that is. It means one foot in front of the other until the massive landscape of a dresser comes into view. It means seeing those enormous fingernails attached to even bigger fingers moving out to scrape open a dresser drawer, and the scale of it is so unearthly huge it’s terrifying on a visceral level. 

The world tilts down as Bucky bends forward, and Steve gets a view of the drop should his restraints give way. A thousand stories down, and absolutely no way to survive the fall. The world tilts back again and a shadow looms, the waistband of boxers rising up over his head and snapping around the bottom of those abs, sealing him inside.

More walking takes them somewhere Steve can’t see, followed by the sound of rushing water. The fabric drops down again and terrifying fingers glide past him to wrap around the cock beneath him and _lift_ it so that the base nearly touches his feet. Bucky’s fingers loosely grip himself, absent and unconcerned. A glance up shows the twitching of his stomach, the slight bulging that must be his bladder, and then the _flood_ of a morning piss out the tip of a dick that stretches on for yards and yards. The staggering amount of it is more than any waterfall Steve has ever seen, it almost doesn’t seem to end.

The world seems so slow at this scale. Bucky shakes himself off with what probably seems like too sharp jerks at normal size, but Steve sees slow-motion every facet of it, the rise in flexing fingers, the momentum in flesh, the drop. Twice, high definition, so strong it shakes him where he’s trapped.

Bucky tucks himself away, seals Steve in place, and goes on with his saturday morning. Steve doesn’t know the details of it. Voices are so loud they’re distorted past the point of being understandable, the world is deafening, the sights obscured by the weave of fabric that’s just enough to let in light for him to see and not much else.

Hours pass, and both of them start to sweat. Steve from the sheer heat of being confined, Bucky from the walking he must be doing, salty and constant, dampening the world around him. 

An eternity later, light streams in again and a hand invades. It isn’t Bucky’s. The nails are neatly manicured, the fingers would be dainty if they weren’t so god damn huge. They pass over Steve like a ship, dip down, down, down, and wrap around Bucky’s flaccid member. They play with it, massage it, grip it and roll it and _touch_ it, and soon enough it isn’t flaccid anymore. Pants get shoved down and soon Steve is exposed to the world again, but he wishes he weren’t when he realizes what’s happening.

Another disembodied pelvis encroaches in his territory, pressing up against him and grinding him into Bucky’s pubic mound. As distorted as voices are, it doesn’t take a genius to recognize a moan. Minutes later the world shifts, the girl’s hand disappears, and Steve stops being vertical. Bucky lays down meaning so does Steve, and he stares up, up, up at what would probably be a gorgeous pussy if it weren’t so goddamn alien at this scale.

“Buck… please, Bucky, no–” The first words of protest he’s said in hours, struggling again weakly at restraints to no avail. He gets to see up close and personal as the tip of Bucky’s cock disappears into the girl’s slit, teasing, in and out as she hovers over him.

Taunting them both.

And then she _sinks down_ and Bucky groans so loud it’s deafening. Sinks down until the soft pink of her folds press gently onto Steve’s body, cushioned by hair.

She starts to rock. Massive hands grab her by the hips and guide her in circles, the base of a dick rolling up enough to touch his feet and then back down again. The world gets wet, rolling with her fluid and Bucky’s combined probably, stinging his eyes and filling up his mouth.

She starts to bounce, and it’s only some kind of miracle that she’s not slamming into _him_ because he’d be dead in two seconds if she did. The sound of slapping flesh, though, the slick sound of him sliding into her, the constant motion… All of that is a whirlwind, it’s chaos, it’s an unmistakably hard cock twitching and his best friend moaning as he slams into the girl without a care in the world for the guy trapped in his pubic hair.

It’d be all the worse if Steve knew Bucky knew he was there. That he’d been dreaming about this whole thing for weeks, that he set it up, and that he paid the girl to ride him just so he could curl up and watch Steve stare up at his dick the whole time.


	7. The Winter Soldier and his 3 tiny toys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The soldier is given Steve, Sam, and Natasha to dispose with as he sees fit. Well, he’s still annoyed with how things went down on the bridge, and a lot of imaginative punishments, thanks to his years with Hydra."

They’re a reward. The asset doesn’t get them often, and almost isn’t sure what to do when he _does_ get them. They usually take the form of a new weapon, food, sleep outside of the cryo chamber, a bath. Basic human amenities. 

These handlers have gotten weak compared to what they used to be. The brutality of the forties and fifties is gone, the cold generation of nazi war criminals giving way to modern technological masterminds more interested in cyber warfare than hands-on force.

They treat him differently, more like an animal than a machine.

Animals are given toys and treats for good behavior. He wonders which of the two they think he’ll consider these. 

Upon the minimalist metal desk within his cell are three naked figures, each less than two inches tall, each wide-eyed and craning their necks up, up, up at him. He recognizes them, of course he does. The man who kicked him, the redheaded woman he’s met more than once, and the man on the bridge who seemed so familiar.

_Who the hell is—_

But he isn’t supposed to think of that. It got him slapped, nearly got him reset. He thinks this is a test, to see how he’ll react to this man. He doesn’t intend to fail it, and the ire that rises up in him manifests in the form of one metal fist _slamming_ onto the table less than six inches from the three of them.

Two of them drop, their knees buckling, skittering back in terror at a hand that must look to be nearly the size of a house. The man from the bridge, the Captain, remains standing. Defiant, jaw set, wide blue eyes staring up. 

His voice is tiny, but the asset can just make out the word, “Bucky.”

Like this, he’s not even close to being a match anymore. The asset reaches out with one flesh finger and knocks the captain onto his back, the pad of it pressing down on his tiny chest with almost no force. All of the air goes out of Steve’s lungs regardless, tiny hands pushing up against the ridges of a fingertip and every bit of the strength he possesses cannot lift the finger.

“Stop calling me that,” The asset mutters, and even as quietly as he says it, it still reverberates through all of their ears like rumbling thunder, godlike, almost ear-splittingly loud.

This is how it begins.

The asset doesn’t kill them because he appreciates having something to occupy his time. In between missions when not frozen, he has nothing. The walls of his cell are empty and bare, there is no form of electronic to keep his mind stimulated. No book, no television, nothing.

Now, all he has are his toys and they keep his attention nearly twenty hours a day in different and imaginative ways.

Sometimes he crosses his legs and puts them in between them, idly flicking them into one another. Sometimes he puts the redhead on the floor and settles one foot on top of her, debating putting some weight into it to crush her beneath the ball of his feet for all the trouble she’s caused him over the years. He leaves her there for minutes or hours at a time just to feel her struggle. He’ll let her out every now and then, let her stand, then knock her back down and start over.

Sometimes he drops them onto the floor and simply says, “Climb.”

Watches them try, hand over hand, to scale his pants. Sometimes they succeed. Sometimes he shakes his leg and they fall, and he says “Climb,” again.

Wilson annoys him most of all, so sometimes he pops Wilson into his mouth and sets him between his back molars. Slides his tongue over the man’s face, his front, his back. Plays with him like candy, pressing him to the roof of his mouth, letting him fall as far as the back of his throat. He thinks about swallowing sometimes, but then he’d only have two left to occupy his time.

After a few weeks, he begins to think of other uses for them. It’s been decades since he’s had intimacy, sex, had any desire to, but sometimes lifting up the redhead close to his eyes he remembers what it was like, and trails an enormous finger along the swell of her tiny breasts. For the first time in a long time it gives him an erection, and with that comes an idea. 

He settles on a threadbare mattress and drops his toys between his legs again, but not for idle fun. He takes Wilson (he hates Wilson) in one hand, lifts up his balls, and presses Wilson beneath them. Lets them settle on him experimentally, testing out the feeling.

It’s good.

The redhead is next. He traces her body with his tongue, brings her in between his lips and prods her with the tip of it to try and taste her. Licks his lips and drags her into his mouth, rolling her in saliva. He can feel her squirm, and knows his idea for her is going to be good.

Plucks her out with flesh fingers and lowers her down, down, down toward his already hard cock. Metal fingers gently press at the head until his slit opens, and he begins to work her in head-first.

It’s around this time he can feel the Captain desperately scaling his balls trying to get to her, and he allows it. It feels nice, and there’s nothing he can do anyway.

Working the redhead in feels _amazing_ , she fights every step of the way as her shoulders go down, then her slender hips, until finally his thumb rubs gently over his head and she’s _inside_ him, fighting, squirming, struggling inside his already aching dick.

The captain is last, this man from the bridge that he knows. He’s plucked up off the asset’s balls and held in the curve of flesh fingers that pass over his leaking head, then pressed against the sensitive underside of his cock. He can feel the captain squirming on the outside in almost the same place the redhead squirms on the inside, and he throws his head back at the sensation. 

He settles back, then. Legs going long, shoulders hitting the mattress, lazily jerking through the stimulation each of them is providing him. Beneath his testicles, Wilson fights and his balls tighten up a little. His hand clamps down on the captain and, inside him, the redhead. He breathes, he allows them to struggle, and he plays with himself for hours.

A far better way to pass the time.


	8. Unaware Bucky using a small Steve while half asleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If you’re looking for Marvel prompts, here’s one: Steve gets shrunk and ends up trying to wake Bucky up to get help. It would probably have been better if he’d gone around those thick thighs, and ignored how easy it would be to climb the seam of the boxers, because Bucky is more than happy to satisfy the urge Steve is unknowingly causing."

Bucky sleeps on top of the blankets, he has ever since he got his mind back. It’s one of those instincts, one of those unshakable fears that if he’s pinned down and tangled in sheets he wouldn’t be able to react as quick. Wouldn’t be able to bolt if the situation called for it. Too restrictive, too much anxiety. At least Steve has that going for him. 

Another is that Barnes doesn’t really move around in his sleep. He settles with legs shoulder-length apart, one arm on his stomach, one beneath his pillow, back flat on the mattress. No rolling around kicking him, flopping on top of him, nothing of the sort, just calm, serene stillness.

Steve stares up the bed at a body the size of a god damn mountain, and assesses the task before him. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, and he’s always been a pretty direct kind of guy. Going left or right would mean scaling a massive thigh and skirting long-ways around his body to get to an ear.

Going straight would be faster, but it means scaling up the navy-blue seam of Bucky’s boxer briefs, and while the thought makes him tremendously uncomfortable, well… 

“Here goes nothing,” He mutters, exhaling a breath to brace himself. And off he goes, wrapping hands around thread and taking one small step for man. The fabric is strong, but the feeling beneath it has plenty of give- a clear sign that he’s making his way up testicles. He’s only a couple inches tall, two, maybe two and a half, and he doesn’t like to think that the thing he’s climbing is as big or bigger than he is, frankly.

At least Bucky’s clean, at least when his face presses into the fabric all he smells is soap and fabric softener. So… there’s that. All he hears is the steady inhale and exhale of the man he’s climbing, and the rhythm of a heartbeat pulsing beneath him. 

From here, he can’t see Bucky’s fingers twitch on his stomach, or the way his lips part softly.

He _can_ see the fabric over his head shift like something alive is hovering over him. He’s trying not to think about that, either. He continues his ascent, cresting the balls, when abruptly the fabric shakes like an earthquake. It’s not. It’s Bucky’s cock, twitching beneath the fabric. Stiffening and curving upright into a tent, one that starts far off to his left and ends far off to his right in an impassable diagonal line. He’s going to have to climb over it.

“Come on, man,” He mutters in exasperation, but he’s not about to turn back. He climbs on, about an inch above the base. It’s much firmer here, much warmer, and honestly? It makes the climb a little easier. Like climbing cliffs with handholds rather than sagging sand.

He makes it about midway up Bucky’s shaft before the world shifts again, but this time it’s Bucky’s hips and thighs flexing. He clings for dear life, plastering his body against Bucky’s mostly-hard dick, waiting for the world to settle.

Above him, a loud voice fills the air, reverberating all around him, rumbling like lions and wind.

“ ** _Steve_** …” The sound of his own name from a voice that big is unsettling, but it has to mean Bucky’s spotted him, right? He doesn’t know, he can’t see Bucky’s face over the curve of his dick.

“Oh, thank god…” He murmurs, when a giant hand blurs it’s way into his peripheral vision and descends as though in slow motion, heading straight for him. “Bucky…”

The weight of the hand settles, but doesn’t pluck him up. No, it just gets heavier and heavier, the backs of Bucky’s fingers pressing him down hard onto the cotton and _dragging_ his body up a few inches toward the underside of his cock head. What the _hell_ , man? What kid of rescue is this?

Those fingers push again, drag him straight back down, rubbing his face and chest into rough cotton. And then they drag him back up, and he flails beneath those fingers. Starts to kick and squirm- and gets drug back down.

And back up.

And back down.

And back up, and on this pass Bucky’s cock twitches beneath him, a thumping pulse that shoves him back into fingers which press down in turn. Above him, Barnes lets out a rumbling groan. 

Bucky’s massaging himself with Steve’s body, working his erection absently, still mostly asleep.

“BUCKY- BUCK, STOmmph-” Fingers press harder, smashing his mouth into the fabric and muffling his voice entirely. Barnes changes his grip abruptly, no longer trailing fingers but rather fully cupping himself, wrapping his entire hand around his cock over his boxers and rubbing out slow, lazy jerks. On the upward pass, Steve can feel dampness start to soak through the fabric. Precum, salty and bitter, sticks to the side of his face. “Oh, god…”

The next upward pass has Steve caught in the curve of knuckles, which leave the boxers entirely as Barnes stuffs his hands beneath the waist. All too soon Steve finds himself pressed to skin, soft velvety skin that covers utter hardness. Bucky grips himself loosely, enough that his cock slides up and down Steve’s front like he’s being fucked.

The tip of it sweeps just low enough that it passes over his face, soaks his chest, and then Bucky slides him all the way back down to the base again. And then back up, then back down, loosely jacking himself through a daydream or fantasy. “ ** _Mm, Steve…_** ”

Steve’s fucking sick of it soon enough, and commits every ounce of his super soldier strength into squirming, pushing, writhing, anything and everything he can to get Bucky’s attention. It pulls a full-on _hiss_ from Barnes, who tightens his grip _hard_ around the bundle of nerves right under his cockhead. No more sliding Steve up and down, no, he grips and jerks so tightly Steve’s smashed into skin and is rigorously shaken along the same two or three inches of space. From tip to sensitive nerves and back again, rough unforgiving tugs of his cock.

Steve can feel Bucky’s dick start to twitch. Precum oozes down over the top of him, and above him Bucky gets vocal, moaning his name, groaning, thrusting into his own hand. 

He can feel Bucky’s heartbeat though the vein on the underside, picking up and hammering fast. He can feel rolling throbs start to take hold, can feel it when Barnes starts to toe the line right before orgasm, desperate and scrambling and chasing it.

“Stop- god- Buck, stop-” 

As though Bucky can hear him, he goes faster. Harder. Doubles down, grips tight, and comes with a tremendous gushing of hot wetness and rolling throbs, ones that he shoves Steve into with every pulse, rubbing him in a way that almost feels deliberate on that glorious fucking spot. 

Bucky’s rhythm slows. Slackens. He can hear Bucky panting above him, and he can feel Bucky go soft above him. Still he moves, massaging himself tenderly through the afterglow.

And then he tucks his dick back into his boxers with Steve still trapped under it.


	9. The one where Steve's lowkey into vore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You know how Bucky has really pouty lips? Imagine tiny Steve staring longingly at them as Bucky eats his cereal, wanting nothing more than to disappear along with his breakfast, See the power behind those teeth, feel the squeeze of the esophagus. He’s a super soldier, he’d survive it, but he’s also awkward and doesn’t know how to bring it up. Thankfully, Bucky is observant, and those pouty lips twist up into a smirk..."

He’s not judgmental, either. Steve’s into what he’s into, and Bucky’s happy to make it happen. He’s always had a thing for teasing Steve anyway, and when he plucks the little guy up between his finger and thumb he doesn’t mother answering any questions.

He licks his lips, hot tongue bigger than Steve is passing over them, wetting them down, and then he presses them down on Steve’s middle. Holds him there in plush softness for a while like he’s trapped in a kiss, feeling little legs kicking against his teeth and hands curling against his lips. He passes his tonge over them again, and this time Steve under it. Licks him like he licks his own lips, then uses his tongue to drag Steve into his mouth proper. Rolls him under hot tongue and keeps him there.

Then dips his tongue under Steve’s back, scoops him up, plays with him a little like he’s hard candy. Rolls him around until Steve’s back hits the roof of his mouth, and searches Steve’s front with his tongue. Yep, just like he thought, the hardness of a little erection that he prods at mercilessly.

A huffy chuckle fills the area around Steve, blowing past him so strong his hair ruffles.

Bucky tosses him to one side of his mouth with ease, shoves him between his back teeth with a forceful tongue, and slowly presses down. Steve’s trapped between molars, hard white enamel above and below him as Bucky bites down a little harder with every passing second.

He’s terrified, genuinely terrified, and harder than he’s ever been. 

“Buck…” He gasps uncertainly, when the pressure starts to be just a little too much. Bucky holds him there, right on the edge of what he can stand, and his tongue slides in sopping wet along Steve’s face, his side his arms.

Bucky closes his lips, and plunges him into darkness. 

Minutes tick by, and Steve starts to sweat.

Then Bucky moves his tongue again, dislodging him, trapping him underneath it when his lips part and light floods, blinding only for a second.

And he sees it, the cereal spoon entering Bucky’s mouth, gliding over the tongue he’s trapped beneath. He gets an up close and personal view of the contents being scraped off by Bucky’s front teeth, lips passing along the metal, wheaties the size of himself being dumped, milk splasing over him.

Bucky’s careful to hold him deliberately in place as cereal works it’s way to his back teeth, and Bucky chews with his mouth open so Steve can see in vivid daylight the way they gnash and grind cereal to a pulp in any direction. That they could easily do that to him, too. He can’t help the way he rocks his hips into Bucky’s hot, wet tongue.

And then Bucky swallows, and the suction is enough to nearly dislodge him. He watches every scrap of cereal and milk disappear behind a working throat, the way it drops down, down, down into darkness.

Bucky takes another bite, and it’s every bit as terrifying as the first.

And another.

He finishes the entire bowl with Steve under his tongue.

He thinks it’s over when Bucky lets him back out again, when he settles on top of it, when lips part, except no- the bowl looms in before him, and a hundred gallons of sugary milk rush over him, sending him careening from one cheek into the other. Audible swallows fill his ears as Bucky indiscriminately downs gulp after gulp of milk, and Steve loses his grip on Bucky’s tongue. A thick tide of milk rushes him to the back of Bucky’s throat, which seems to close on instinct.

For a minute he floats there, terrified. 

“Bucky…” It’s a soft plea, one he’s not even sure Bucky hears. He expects fingers to reach in and pluck him back out again any second now.

Any.

Second.

Now.

The milk gets room temperature, he sloshes left, right.

And then the throat beneath him opens up, and Bucky swallows him whole.


	10. Steve shrinks when he's nervous or unhealthy, Bucky accidentally sits on him and starts touching himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "How about a preserum Steve who shrinks when he feels bad health-wise getting trapped when Bucky’s feeling horny and unaware of his presence?"

You’d think Bucky would be used to it by now, what with having been Steve’s friend since elementary school. One time Steve got pneumonia so bad he dwindled down to half an inch and his Ma kept him in a tea tin on the counter. Bucky would come by and stare down at him praying to God he didn’t dwindle away to nothing.

But it hasn’t been that bad in a decade or so, Steve’s stayed more or less at five feet tall on account of his asthma. Bucky can’t help but wonder how big he might’ve been at full health, at least another foot and another hundred pounds of muscle, he’d wager.

He’s not at home when Steve starts coming down with the flu. Not there when Steve holes up on the couch coughing, sneezing, aching, and shrinking. Has no clue to look for him when he wanders in after a shift at the docks, sighing to what he believes is an empty apartment and stripping his clothes off once he’s in the door. With Steve not at home he aims to get in a little me-time, and he’s always found particular joy in walking around the apartment naked when he can.

Steve doesn’t wake up until it’s too late, and when he does he’s just a couple inches tall on the couch cushion. Too small for Bucky to notice before his perfect ass descends through the air and settles heavily _just_ behind him. He’s lucky not to get squashed, but not as lucky as he could be. Bucky’s heavy balls settle like a crushing weight on his chest, covering him from shoulders to toes and smashing him immovably into the couch.

It pushes the breath from his already weak lungs, and all he can do is stare up past them at the curve of an erection larger than he is, at the fingers that curl around it, at the underside of Bucky’s chin as he tilts his head back, eyes closed, eliminating all hope of Steve getting noticed.

He raises his hand, and the weight on Steve lessens with the up stroke. He strokes down, the weight comes back again. He circles his dick and his balls shift beneath them, a rhythmic bouncing on Steve’s chest, and all he can do is look up, feverish, at Bucky who might as well be a god at this scale.

Bucky breathes heavy, groans, and Steve can feel it reverberating even through his testicles. It’s an overwhelming sight, thick calloused fingers, enormous dick above him, the shaking over top of him that simultaneously crushes him and also arouses him. In spite of himself, Steve finds his own cock hardening beneath Bucky’s sack - and the bouncing stimulates it, leaving him moaning and trying to hump upward in vain.

They’re too heavy, he hasn’t got a chance in hell. He can only lay and wait for the double edged sword of Bucky’s hand to work faster, torturing him and rubbing him off at the same time.

After several minutes of steadfast jerking, Bucky finally feels the pleasant, tingling, squirming sensation beneath his balls. His rhythm falters and his chin tips down, down, down, until blue eyes lock onto Steve’s gaze.

“Thank god,” Steve wheezes, renewing his struggle. 

“ ** _STEVE?_** ” Bucky gasps, hand slowing but not stopping. 

“Bucky- get me outta here- you’re crushin’ me-”

Bucky moans, balls tightening a little, and he makes no move to pull Steve out. “ ** _Not just yet, pal, I’m almost done_** -”

He says it breathlessly, jerking his hand a little faster, staring straight down at Steve as he does so. 

“Buck- please- please, I can’t breathe-” Steve cries, voice hoarse, struggling to be heard over the sound of Bucky pumping his fist.

“ ** _Not yet, Stevie, not yet- god, you feel so good down there,_** ” He grunts, fist working harder, faster, the weight on Steve doubling down enough that he scrambles, claws, kicks. “ ** _Yeah, do that, do that- god, that’s good Stevie- might just leave you down there all damn day, Christ almighty._** ”


	11. Steve shrinks when he gets horny, Bucky's super into it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky’s always had a thing for Steve, he thinks, is the problem. Ever since they were in grade school and they first met. Steve was there, an entire foot shorter than everyone else in his class, standing up to a bully who was a whole head _taller_ than everyone else, and the discrepancy between them was truly shocking. What got to Bucky, though, was the way he stared up with wild and unruly eyes, defiant and square-jawed, shoulders cocked, ready to fight the damn guy.

Only to take a shove so hard to the chest that he fell with the ease of a strong wind on a paper plate. The tall guy laughed, Steve hit the floor, and a minute later Steve was dragging himself back up again with that same look. Unbroken, ready to be pushed around again. That’s about the time Bucky’s crush set in.

Something about that little guy taking a beating and getting back up… Something about it never really went away.

As they got older Bucky shot up but Steve stayed the same more or less, and Barnes took great and uncomfortable pleasure in certain things that pointed out their disparity. Throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulders like he’s an arm rest, wrestling him to the ground playfully even though they both knew Steve didn’t stand a chance. Standing behind him in a crowd pretending not to see him.

Anything to get Steve riled up and fighting back - but failing to make any real headway.

If he’s honest, it got him off a little.

It’s a long time after puberty that Bucky finds out about Steve’s little condition. About why he’s still a virgin. About why he seems to slink away whenever a pretty girl comes around the corner. One time, he catches Steve eyeing a mouthy brunette and before his eyes Steve drops an entire foot.

Bucky’s dick shot straight up before he could even register what happened.

From that point on it became sort of a personal mission, from roping him in on double dates, forcing him to go out dancing, teasing him about this girl or that girl late at night whenever his imagination’s most vivid. The lowest Bucky’s ever seen him drop is about half height, and he scurried off before Bucky could do what he really wanted to do about it.

It all changes one night after they both head back to their apartment after the bar, a bottle of whiskey in one hand that they pass back and forth until they’re both hammered and staggering in the doorway together. They collapse onto the couch laughing, Bucky leaning heavy on Steve, Steve looking up at him with glassy eyes and parted lips, and for a second they seem… so close. A foot away maybe, probably less. Close enough that he can feel Steve exhale onto his lips, can smell the alcohol and cotton candy on it.

Bucky’s eyes darken when Steve starts to dwindle just an inch. He leans in until their lips are a breath away, and an inch becomes six. It’s enough to make him surge forth and seal his lips onto Steve’s, a hot exhale flooding from Steve’s nose beneath him.

Steve loses an entire foot after that, and Bucky’s hard as god damn diamonds.

“Buck…” He says meekly, like an apology- or maybe like a request to stop, but Bucky disregards it in favor of shifting atop Steve, pinning his four-foot body down by straddling Steve’s hips with his own and ducking in to seal their lips together again. Beneath him, he can feel Steve’s cock stirring, twitching-

Shrinking.

“Jesus, Stevie,” He breathes when several more inches slip away, leaving him too short to kiss without Bucky having to bend his back at an incredible angle. It’s okay, he rocks his hips instead, the length of his cock covering Steve’s entire crotch and some of his belly now that he’s three feet and at the mercy of friction.

“Bucky, I can’t… We can’t. I’ve never been able to- to come before, I get so small, I just…” But Bucky isn’t stopping still, he’s just working his hips steadily up and down in a delicious friction-y rhythmic drag on Steve’s crotch, milking out the pleasure that keeps centimeters falling off Steve regularly.

“It’s okay, pal, I got you. God, you wouldn’t believe how hot this is, Steve, watchin’ you just… You’re so god damn small right now…” He murmurs, slurring drunkenly and using Steve’s body like an instrument.

Before long Steve’s only a foot tall, and all he can see is Bucky’s stomach as the heaving weight of him pushes him into the couch, stealing his breath. He feels like a child, and pushing against Bucky’s stomach and rocking hips accomplishes almost nothing. There’s no running from the constant friction that works his dick, no running from the way Bucky hovers over him, humping him mercilessly into the couch cushions. Bucky grips the arm of the couch above him, lets his legs stretch out along the couch, and soon enough it’s just Bucky’s pelvis that’s on top of him entirely like he himself is a pillow meant only to support Bucky’s hips while he works himself.

The weight’s getting unbearable, crushing, his asthma can’t keep up with it, and he pushes against the top of Bucky’s pelvis, pushes against his bellybutton, his cock’s so hard and demanding that it’s like a bone ramming into his chest over and over and over again.

“Bucky- Buck, please-”

“Shhh,” Bucky hushes him, a low slurr, a groan, rolling his hips forth and _dragging_ them up Steve’s entire body. “Shh, you feel so good, Steve…”

“Bucky, you gotta get off me, you’re crushin’ me, I can’t breathe,”

“No, Steve- in a minute, not yet, if you- ngh, Christ- if you knew how good you felt-” He groans, fingers tightening in the cushions, cheek pressed against one as he humps Steve’s small body. “God, I wanna- how small do you get, Stevie? I wanna see it-”

And just as abruptly he’s up, the weight’s lifted and Steve’s lifted shortly after, just over eight inches so Bucky can grab him like nothing around the waist. He’s been this small before, but only once- secretly, in the privacy of his own room as a teenager, jerking off and hoping beyond hope he could come before he got any smaller.

He never could, and he’s been too scared to go any further than this, afraid to dwindle away to nothing. Afraid someone would walk in and not even know he was there.

Bucky unbuckles his belt with one hand, shifts his pants off and settles onto the couch. Turns his attention to Steve and undresses him like a god damn doll.

“Buck- Seriously, Bucky, I can’t- I don’t wanna get any smaller, please-”

Bucky isn’t listening, he’s half-lidded, drunk, gone on lust, and he raises Steve up to his mouth to wrap plush lips around his one-inch cock. His entire package fits on Bucky’s lips, he licks and sucks Steve so warm and so unbelievably well that before Steve knows it he’s moaning, thrusting into Bucky’s lips and tongue, giving in to the pleasure he’s never felt before.

And shrinking down, down, down, to half even what he was before. When he next opens his eyes Bucky’s mouth is a looming, enormous thing that seems to have no end. His lips part into an open-grin and Steve can see his tongue, can see down the back of his throat, knows he could fit inside that mouth as easy as chewing gum.

Bucky licks him from thighs to face, and then lowers him down, down, down again.

“God, Stevie, I love this. I love seein’ you get so small, I love seein’ you so turned on, I love doin’ whatever I want with you, I just- Fuck, I wanna keep you like this so bad…” he murmurs, leaning back onto the couch and propping his feet up. He holds Steve with his right hand and slides the fingers of his left around the base of his cock. Positions Steve beneath it, and shakes his dick gently, slapping it onto Steve’s entire body. It’s gentle at first, a _tap, tap, tap_ , as Bucky smacks it along him, beating him with it like that guy in fifth grade.

Playing with it. Playing with himself, playing with Steve.

He takes the head of it and presses it against Steve’s mouth, smearing precum around it and making Steve splutter. The slit’s as big as his own mouth, the cock itself is bigger than him, and as humiliated as he feels he’s also incredibly, undeniably aroused by the way Bucky treats him like nothing more than a toy.

“Maybe I can get you inside it, Stevie. Bet you’d feel real good in there, squirming around trying to fight your way out. Bet I could get you all the way in before I came,” He murmurs, shifting to wrap Steve’s arms and legs around his shaft. Lining Steve’s little erection up so that as Bucky jerks himself off, Steve’s getting friction from the underside of his hot, slick cock.

He moans, it reverberates through Steve’s entire body, and Steve moans himself, almost a sob, a desperate plea, pushing against Bucky’s dick as terror rapidly sets in.

He’s getting smaller. Smaller. The smallest he’s ever been, from four inches to two to one, trapped inside of Bucky’s fist as he jerks himself, the world no longer looks like the world but a distant alien planet. Bucky no longer looks like his friend but some alien, enormous, unearthly god encompassing everything in any direction. His fingers are walls, his cock is pulsing and throbbing, and soon Bucky lifts him away from it to hover him over the head.

“Bucky- please don’t put me in there- Buck- Please don’t put me in there, I don’t wanna go in- I don’t wanna get any smaller- Please-”

Truth is, he’s not even sure Bucky can hear him anymore, small as he is, half an inch at best. All Bucky does is jerk himself with one hand and moan, lowering Steve down until he’s waist-deep in Bucky’s hungry slit.

Bucky stares down at him like the moon, slowing his hand so he can get a good look at Steve struggling to stay there on the cusp of his slit, kicking his legs and squirming in a way that feels amazing.

“M’gonna push you in, Stevie, you better fight,” He teases, lowering an enormous thumb to hover over Steve’s head. He can feel, distantly, the increase in sudden squirming and it brings another moan to his lips. His thumb dips just enough to ruffle Steve’s hair, and then backs off again. “God, you feel so good Steve. Christ, I’m gonna push you in, you ready? Keep squirming like that in there, okay?”

“Buck- please- please- I don’t wanna-”

Bucky’s thumb smooths over the head of his dick, and Steve drops into a hot, tight, pulsing chamber. He can see out the top when he cranes his neck back, he can see light that pulses open, closed, open, closed in time with the shifting of pressure as Bucky’s hand works himself up and down. He can hear Bucky’s heartbeat, his reverberating moans. Can feel Bucky’s cock twitching and throbbing in sheer pleasure at the feeling, and he fights to make his way back to the top.

It only makes him sink deeper, deeper, deeper down. The light gets further away, and Bucky’s moans get filthier and fucking filthier.

“I’m gonna come, Steve- Make me come, make me come, make it good- God, fuck, yes- yes- FUCK-” His cock bursts with pleasure, he sees fucking stars, he can feel squirming through his orgasm, he can feel Steve threatening to erupt out of the top and he quickly runs his thumb over it to keep the guy in even longer, through every single aching bit of pleasure that punches through his pelvis.

Only once it’s done does he shake Steve out, half a centimeter tall and moaning through his own orgasm in the tidal wave of Bucky’s sperm along the couch.


	12. After a fight, Bucky shoves Steve down his pants and takes him to work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You want me to god damn show you? Prove it to you? Gladly!” He bites it out, barks it out with heat and enthusiasm, snatching Steve up from his defiant stance on the counter of their kitchen. The god damn audacity, Steve thinking he’d do something like that, ever, like anyone could ever compare, like he’s that kind of guy.

Steve manages only a singular noise of protest before fingers the size of trees descent upon him and unceremoniously soar through the air. Buck shoves him full-fist down the front of his pants, down his boxers, right down to his flacid dick. Nestles him under it, clean between cock and balls so Steve can have absolutely no mistake on where and what his dick is doing all god damn day while he works his ass off to bring them in money.

Stomps immediately out the door, slamming it behind him, fuming. If he walks a little too enthusiastically so that his package shakes, well, sue him.

Steve’s world is abruptly dark. Bucky’s cock is a heavy weight pinning him to soft balls, it becomes his entire world, nearly suffocating, padding every square inch so he has to turn his head to breathe from a small space between two parts of Bucky’s junk. They’ve never done anything like this before — they’ve played, obviously. Steve’s explored every inch, Bucky’s held him loose while he fisted himself, but he’s never been thrown down here without careful attention, care, and consideration.

Now, he’s nothing. Not minded, not cared for, there is no Bucky because there’s a mile of distance and a mountain of fabric separating him, and he is trapped alone with dick. So close, but he might as well be on another planet. All the yelling in the world doesn’t even drown out the thunderous steps of Bucky walking, of the subtle skin slapping on skin, of the traffic, of anything. He beats and pounds his fists in frustration at the flesh pinning him, but only once does it twitch.

Shortly after, a massive hand looms, shadow visible from the light that filters in through the weave of his trousers, and it grips down on both Steve and Bucky’s junk. He bounces it, wiggles it, readjusts himself, probing fingers smashing his face deeper into the velvety soft skin of Bucky’s cock. A reprimand.

He’s got to face facts: he’s trapped, and Bucky’s got an eight hour shift of dock work to do. There is no getting out.

It starts off boring. There’s just rhythmic bouncing, the rise and fall of Bucky’s balls that shake him with every step, that sway left, right, left, right, like a hammock.

And then he starts to work, lifting and loading, changing the rhythm, jostling him abruptly.

He starts to sweat. It becomes hot, humid, wet, coating through Steve’s clothes, sticking to him, filling the place with body odor, with must. It starts sticky, and soon gets slick when things become oversaturated. There’s constant movement, constant jiggling, constant bouncing trying to shake him loose, and god- if he falls down into Bucky’s underwear, those heavy balls will be on top of him.

So he grips, grabs on to Bucky’s cock with everything he’s got, squirming against gravity and against lubrication.

Bucky can feel him, little hands, pressure, teasing, hanging on him. He can feel it in a way that surprises the anger out of him, can feel it with every crate he hoists, and a sudden surge of heat starts to trickle in. Damn, that’s kinda nice. That feels… kinda good. A pleasant heat rolls through him, and he can’t help but imagine Steve down there getting his world rocked by the contents of Bucky’s underwear.

By the time lunch rolls around, Bucky’s hard as hell and every few minutes reaching down to rub at himself through his trousers, pushing Steve into his sweet spot, pushing him into his balls through the fabric, massaging him into places whenever he can get a hand on himself and not get seen.

He’s gotta hide out at the back of a freighter the first time he gets the chance, gripping himself through the fabric and groaning, “Damn, Stevie, if I’da known this is what it’d be like I’d have started taking you to work sooner. Think I know what we’re doin’ from now on.”

Steve can hear him through the fabric, and he slams his fist to indicate a hell no as best he can. He can see Bucky’s stomach muscles contract in tight, though, and fingertips appear again form nowhere to grind him into the place he’d just hit approvingly.

Bucky doesn’t stop this time, though. Rough, scratchy, sweaty fabric and immense pressure rock him into the slick skin of Bucky’s dick, rubbing him up and down a rock-hard erection with painstaking delibrateness, up, down, up, down, coupled with groans that down out the world. Soon, the flesh beneath him pulses, throbs, rolls in an unmistakable orgasm.

Bucky comes, and Steve watches it gush from his tip down his length, coating his hair, his chest, his face, everything. Plastering him to the underside of Bucky’s cock as his fingers smush him harder into it, riding out the wave of pleasure.

He’s expecting freedom after that. Expecting Bucky to slip his fingers in and clean them both off, but instead ticking seconds pass and then the bouncing starts again. Bucky’s already drenched in sweat, his cum doesn’t even register as a dark spot on the fabric. He’s leaving Steve in there with it, covered and disgusting, to go back to work.

Four more hours.

Bucky comes twice more before the shift is out, and god bless if his job didn’t just get a hell of a lot better.

The next day, Steve tries to protest this arrangement.

Bucky doesn’t listen to a word of it. He’s dropped into underwear and given a new full-time occupation.

At least Steve knows he isn’t cheating.


	13. Public Transportation Underwear Entrapment with Cas and Dean

Since obtaining the angel tablet, Castiel’s had to stay constantly on the move. If he stops for too long - even minutes - it’s likely that one of his brothers or sisters will pick up on his whereabouts and descend upon him to rip the tablet from his body. He’s gotten around this the same way he tends to get around everything - using loopholes.

He buys a ticket and boards a bus. It means he can settle into a seat and stay still for six or eight hours without fear of being caught, rather than using his grace to fly from location to location wasting his energy.

The only potential drawback is the utter boredom, but he’s found a loophole around that, too. Dean, admittedly, was not very fond of his decision. He tried to position it as an appeal, a request, pointing out that at his current size he’s of no use to Sam or anyone else, and at least _this_ way he’d be of some value in any capacity. If he isn’t capable of performing a job, he can at least perform a service as a toy, or a tool.

In the end, ultimately it doesn’t matter very much. The request had been a courtesy, but the decision was already made on his end. It’s just a matter of Dean making it harder on himself.

It isn’t all that bad. Dropping Dean into his underwear abruptly afforded him about an hour of incredibly pleasant sensation as the hunter struggled around his testicles, presumably fighting or struggling for an exit. Sitting in the back in a seat alone means that Castiel is able to blatantly reach down and dig his fingers into his cloth-covered crotch, rearranging Dean in his underwear so that his struggles are in a more pleasurable location.

During this alone time, he makes it clear what he expects of Dean. He’s to stimulate on command, and he’s to work as many orgasms out of Castiel as the angel decides. There are times when Dean goes still and unmoving inside Castiel’s boxer shorts, but all it really takes is to reach down and roughly squeeze himself (and Dean) through his clothes or, at worst, manually massage himself with Dean’s body.

By the second hour, Dean is obediently compliant and Cas has the opportunity to sit back in the plastic seat and softly sigh, relaxing into the window and staring out while he gets his cock played with. He doesn’t necessarily expect Dean’s full energy at all times, but every 40 or so minutes he’ll dip his head and softly order, “Make me come, Dean.”

After that, he’ll spread his thighs out comfortably apart, sink into the seat, feel himself peak and roll through climax over Dean’s body.

Of course, he uses his grace to clean up the mess after a few moments of enjoying the thought of Dean coated in it. He isn’t interested in making his toy suffer.

As the bus heads into the more densely populated areas of the city, it fills with infirmed and elderly, children and other people who require the seat far more than he does. Castiel stands, but gives Dean no directive that he should stop. The cluster of bodies tightly packed means nobody’s able to glance down below his waist on accident anyway, so he isn’t concerned about the social ramifications.

Not until an attractive brunette takes the last remaining few inches of space before him, curls her hand around the same handrail, and relaxes gently into him so that her backside brushes against the undeniably hard line of his erection - and, of course, Dean plastered against it. 

Castiel can feel her startlement, he purses his lips apologetically and braces himself for an apology - but when she turns around to eye the man behind her, she seems incredibly pleased by what she finds. She turns back toward the front without a word, but steps her right foot back to more firmly push herself against his crotch.

Castiel’s stuttered inhale barely holds back a more telling noise. 

He can see over her petite shoulder, down her top. Her breasts gently bounce along with the rhythm of the bus, and bolstered in her confidence, she prominently rolls her hips back to grind her ass against him in a steady, deliberate up and down.

She can’t possibly know about the contents of his underwear, of course. She can’t know that what she’s doing feels ten times better than it normally would, because the perfect firm roundness of her grinds Dean into him. The way his erection settles snugly in the valley between her cheeks means that her muscle gently grips him, and she drags his body up and down Castiel’s cock in a manner much like his hand would - except that it comes from a stranger, which makes the nerves spark far more sweetly.

He doesn’t consider the immense pressure on Dean’s body, nor the discomfort of cotton rubbing raw along his back. He thinks only of how good it feels, and eventually allows one of his hands to settle upon her hip to pull her back and guide her grind. He matches her movement in the opposite direction, heat spiking in thick licks up his spine and unfurling in his pelvis.

One last hitched breath, and he spills harder than he ever has against her, grinding Dean into her ass and throbbing through an orgasm.

She shoots one self-satisfied look back at him when the bus reaches her destination, then slips away without a single word.

Dean is permitted to rest after that, and he gently tucks the hunter between his flaccid member and his balls to enjoy the warmth and pressure of him when he sits again.

At the end of the day, Castiel has to change buses. Dean is not permitted to leave his underwear at that stop, or the next – or for the foreseeable future, so long as his existence in them makes the rides more pleasurable. He spends the time Castiel walks down underneath his balls, he spends the time Castiel sits gently rubbing delightful feeling into him, and when he gets hungry - well, there’s an abundance for him to eat, if he works for it.


	14. Consensual underwear entrapment with Dean and Tiny!Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ooh, I have an idea! Dean intentionally (and with consent) traps his mini-angel boyfriend in his pants and goes about his day as normal. They figured that the secrecy would add an extra thrill, and they were right. (bonus if Dean has to do a thing that prevents him from being able to check on Cas.) -- bitty"

Dean says, “You sure about this?”

He’s gotta admit it’s a sight, staring down into the underwear he’s holding open with one thumb while Cas arranges himself into his preferred position: back against the fabric of his boxers, facing Dean’s balls, staring up with a tipped chin and that god damn glint in his eye. Dean’s seen it often enough, it’s that one Cas gives him when he’s doing something sneaky, or particularly clever. Skating by on a technicality, or subtly winding him up in that way only he can manage to do.

“I’m surprised, Dean, that of the two of us _you’re_ the more “vanilla” partner,” and he does those tiny god damn air quotes up at him and everything. Dean pulls a disgusted face, mumbling under his breath about needing to get Cas the hell away from the internet.

“Alright, well, you know what to do if you want out, so.” His lips purse together, and after one final moment of hesitation waiting for him to change his mind, he lets the waistband snap closed. It eradicates the space between Cas and his junk, and he takes a second to just stand there and sort of feel it out. Drops his right hand down to experimentally cup himself through the fabric, jiggling and rearranging until Cas is snug against his sack. Another pause, and then he feels one telling, tiny little _lick_ against the center of them. Small as it is, it still sends a feather of heat coasting up his spine.

“Damn, okay,” he concedes, and then carefully starts moving around to begin his day-to-day. It’s odd, a little - he walks being hyper aware of the way his balls sway for the first time in his life. More than that, he walks and as he does he can feel tiny arms wrapping around both of them, tiny legs squirming a bit so he can kick himself up and keep from slipping down beneath them. It’s gentle, it’s constant, it’s like a stroking finger, and it’s already gotten just a tiny little bit of blood running south.

They ain’t even started yet.

He curls his hand around his package, gently squeezing Cas into them and muttering, “You’re gonna have to calm down just for a minute or we’re never gonna get out of this hotel room.”

Today’s a “pretend to be the FBI” day. It means his slacks are loose and blue, there’s no danger of a hunt, and it means he’s got to go into a police department with Sam to interview a couple cops and a couple witnesses. 

The drive over is a freaking challenge. He sits down, and just by default his balls settle over Castiel’s entire little body. He’s tempted to reach down, tempted to adjust, but Cas laid down some very specific rules: _Don’t help me. I mean it, Dean. No touching. This is for me to navigate._

So he doesn’t, and there’s a long, concerned pause where he waits to see if their agreed-upon safe-”word” happens: tiny teeth sinking into his flesh. They tested it the night before, the sensation’s akin to a very uncomfortable _pinch_ wherever he bites hard enough - like a particularly sudden, slightly painful itch. It doesn’t come, and a second later he can feel the rustling beneath them as Cas works himself out. Soon enough, he feels those arms and what he assumes is the top half of a body fold over the upper side of his balls, squeezing and massaging them accidentally as they search for leverage to peel him the rest of the way out. It’s a new and interesting kind of pressure, a really pleasant rubbing and pulsing, and he’s half hard before he even starts the car.

Which he does as soon as Sam gets in, and it sets the whole bench seat vibrating a little. He puts the car into drive and pulls out, and he’s so distracted feeling that tiny form start working itself in between his balls and his downward-pointed cock that he forgets to turn on the radio.

It’s fortunate that Sam doesn’t notice something’s off right then and there, he just reaches out to crank up whatever tape Dean left in and starts staring out the window in his own moosey world. Which is… a freaking miracle, because it feels like Cas has wrapped his arms around every bit of what he could reach, straddled him with his legs, and has begin inching his way up it toward the head. 

Shortly after, he feels tiny little licks - which in actuality are Castiel dragging his tongue up nearly a foot of space at a time, but they feel so minuscule Dean has a hard time fathoming them as anything other than just quick swaths of tongue. He’s dragging it over that sensitive space beneath the head, though, and coupled with his squeezing, it’s- Jesus Christ, it’s more than he was really expecting to get outta this, especially so soon. At one point, heat zings through him so sharp he actually loses focus of the road, and has to course-correct rather abruptly. Sam shoots him a look, and he struggles to keep his voice even when he says, “Pot hole.”

He’s all the way hard when they finally arrive. He waits for Sam to get out first, then hurriedly shoots a hand down into his boxers to arrange his dick - and Cas - to a more upright-position so that the belt holds him in place and keeps him from sticking straight out. After that it’s a matter of buttoning his blazer, which stretches down just past his erection to help mask it. 

Now upright in his trousers, Cas clings to the underside of Dean’s dick as he walks - bouncing steps that nearly shake him loose and make him cling all the harder. He slips an inch, works his way back up again, and is privately relieved when Dean finally takes a seat.

After that, he gets to work. Begins lathing and rubbing, running his hands over the head, wrapping his arms around it and kissing his slit like he might do Dean’s mouth. Distantly, he can hear the rumble of voices and the subtle deepness of Dean’s dipping even lower without realizing it. Beneath him, he can feel Dean’s cock begin to twitch, a needy pulse that almost matches his heartbeat save when Cas does a particularly good move that gets him abruptly jerked upward into the ceiling of fabric above him. He does whatever caused again, and again, and again until there’s a resounding _thud_ of Dean’s foot shooting out and kicking the desk beneath him on accident.

It earns him some looks. He offers a watery, distracted smile and clears his throat. Shifts in his seat. Cas can feel his hips flex and gently rock forward into air. The twitching grows more frequent, the flesh beneath him hard enough to pound nails, the head so swollen and engorged with blood it almost seems angry, and he redoubles his efforts.

Everything beneath him jerks. There’s another _thump_ as Dean’s fist pounds the desk on accident, struggling to choke down a noise as heat and lightning uncurl, and as he comes hot, wet, thick into his underwear and all over the tiny angel that strokes him through it - the entire way, all the way through to afterglow.

The kicker, the real kicker, is when he feels the angel start gently moving around on his over-sensitive flesh to start lapping up and cleaning the mess he made. After all, this would hardly work if Dean had to go through his entire day in cum-soaked pants.

And they still have a long day ahead of them.


	15. Castiel's first time masturbating, unaware of the Tiny!Dean that's making it better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
> 

The biggest mistake Dean Winchester ever made was having a one night stand with a witch. He was pulling on his jeans around the time she woke up, and things descended rapidly. Before he knew what was happening she started shouting things about him learning the hard way what it was like to feel insignificant and used by someone he thought he had a connection with, followed by a bunch of crap in latin he didn’t understand.

The world goes dark.

He wakes up somewhere confined but soft, with a heavy weight on his chest and muffled sounds in the background. Whatever’s pressing down on him is doing so from feet to nearly his neck, a sagging and heavy weight that feels like _skin_ when he pushes at it. Something tickles the back of his neck and his ear, he swats at it and catches it, hand curling around it and feeling out the texture to try and blindly figure out what it is. It’s rope-like, wirey, _thick_ and it smells like sweat and ozone. It’s coming from the soft thing he’s laying on, and as his hand tries to track it back to the source it disappears under more skin-like spongey _something_. Heat emanates from above and below him, so oppressive that it only takes a minute before he starts to sweat.

Okay, yeah, time to get the hell outta here.

He gropes around blindly behind himself, thinking maybe he can drag himself out from whatever the weight is, but his hand presses into something rigid, unyielding, and clothlike. He’s gonna have to get this thing off his chest before he can get out, and so he starts with that, pressing his palms flat against it and _heaving_ up with every ounce of strength he’s got in him. 

The whole room shifts suddenly, the fleshy mass beneath him rolling around a little. He sinks into the center of it, the weight on his chest bears down more so that it’s covering his _face_ , and the two mounds rise up practically sealing him in whatever this space is.

Outside of this place, Castiel sits on a motel bed squirming. It’s just a little at first, with his brow screwed up in concentration and his fingertips probing absently at his crotch. It’s about _this_ time Sam looks over, eyebrows shooting up, and after a surprised beat:

“Um. Cas? What the hell?”

“Something… feels… different. Tingling, or moving, I can’t tell, I think it… It feels good, but I don’t know-”

“ _Yeah, stop right there_ ,” Sam says, holding up his palm, shaking his head. “That’s called a boner, and that’s not something you _take care of_ while people are in the room.”

He slams his book closed, drags it up to his chest, and snatches his keys off the table. “Tell you what, I’m just gonna… head to the library for a couple of hours. You… jerk off or whatever it is angels do, get it out of your system, and then _never talk about it again,_ okay?”

He departs the room without giving Castiel the chance to answer, and a few long minutes tick by while Cas considers this order. Ultimately, it’s the fact that whatever feels kind of good down there hasn’t stopped that drives him to follow through, and he reaches over to flip through the cable options until he finds what Dean calls _softcore porn_. He’s pretty sure he never wants to see what hardcore porn is.

Upon the screen, a pair of breasts bounce up and down as a woman takes it from behind. That combined with the constant stimulation is all it takes, and an angel gets an erection.

Back in Dean’s world, the thing pressing down on his chest gets _heavier_. It grows, expands, dragging across his chest and his face until he’s sandwiched between what he doesn’t realize is a half-hard dick and the balls beneath it. Something shifts again, and the world _shakes_ gently up and down as Cas’s fingers wrap around himself from outside of his pants and gently jostle his package, feeling it out. Probing fingers massage into his hardening length, kneading it onto a furious Dean who scrambles all the harder to shove the thing off of him.

 _That_ sensation Cas very much likes, so he kneads harder, gripping himself over his clothes and digging fingers into what he doesn’t realize is Dean’s back. Some unyielding force smashes Dean into the hardening flesh above him, dragging him a little back and forth against it with the feeling of fabric wrapped in steel unrelenting, smashing, crushing him into heat and pliable skin.

After a couple of minutes, the feeling disappears _thank god_. It’s replaced not long after, though, with something _new_. A rumbling sound, a flood of light and fresh air, and then something invades his dark space. It’s about this time Dean starts putting two and two together, and he realizes that it’s probing fingers, an entire god damn massive _hand_ exploring the cramped area he’s in. They don’t pull him from his place between cock and balls, not yet, in fact they dip around him and start massaging balls, pressing them up and rolling them so that they practically consume Dean within the sagging skin. They smash him into cock, seal him in between the two places, they erase any space and air and movement in teasing, absent rhythm.

Eventually, clever pads of fingertips find _him_ but don’t tug him out. No, one finger _pushes down_ so that he’s deep in between sack, and then start pressing the balls together again, _rolling_ them around in a massive palm, smushing him and burying him in skin. Outside this space, the rumbling thunder of a groan sounds. 

The brutal battering stops and the hand retreats, leaving Dean a precious moment to gasp, to catch his breath, to wrap his arms around the slowly-rising cock above him to try and pull himself out of the quicksand-like skin of testicles beneath him.

Cas moans again at the sensation. He stopped just so he could lift up and work his trousers down a few inches, but he doesn’t even get the chance to remove his underwear before heat and pleasure spark at the stimulation. 

His fingers dip back into the confines of his boxers. Without the trousers blocking out all light, Dean gets full vision of the area around him streaming in through crosshatched fabric. He sees looming fingers dive in and start touching the head of a cock that curves up now that it’s only trapped by soft cotton. He sees them dip down and tries to scramble, but he doesn’t manage it before they’re pressing into his back and smashing him into semi-loose skin at the base of a dick, rubbing him in circles around a thick vein, and an echoing moan follows it.

They drag him _up_ , fingertips pressing into his shoulder blades and his spine so hard they’re practically crushing. They make it to about mid-shaft before they start pressing him in again, rubbing out circles _there_ , teasing and slow. Dean recognizes this as what it is: not the main event, but _foreplay_. Lazy self-exploration. It’s gonna get worse.

Fingertips move again, dragging him along skin up, up, up the shaft until he’s pressed into the frenulum just beneath cockhead, and apparently whoever this is _really_ likes that. The sound that breaks above him is louder than the rest, and instead of just pressing him there the grip shifts so that he’s in the curl of the back of a set of knuckles and fingers wrap around both him and the dick properly. 

That’s when the fun begins. The guy starts jerking himself nice and slow, not dragging Dean up and down but rather gripping him tight in that one special sweet spot and slowly jerking him and the skin around it, rubbing it out nice and easy, taking his time with an arguably loose hold. Precum slips through the slit above him, rolls down the tip and coats his face and chest. He does his best to spit it out, to squirm and struggle to get a hand to his mouth so he can wipe it away.

It’s a mistake. Whoever’s gripping him _likes_ that feeling, and the hand around him doubles down, gripping so tight it knocks the wind out of him, _shaking_ him within the confines of his underwear, furiously masturbating without even shedding his fucking boxers.

Whoever this guy is, he must be a virgin because he’s still wearing clothes and Dean can _tell_ that he’s close. Can tell because the vein above him is pulsing like mad, twitching, the muscles start to spasm, the fingers fluctuate in their grip from loose and fast to _tight_ when a particularly hearty throb rolls through the dick above him. Dean can practically tell each wave of peaking pleasure by it, by the throb and the tight grip that follows, jerking through the wave of feeling he must be having.

In no time at all he grips down _tight,_ spasms like _crazy_ , and spills hot seed slick down his hand and Dean’s front. He’s got to fight to keep from drowning in it. He’s got to kick and squirm and struggle within the skin to get a hand to his mouth and frantically rub the sperm away. He twists, he smears his face along the skin of the dick beneath him in his struggle against the spilling seed.

Maybe if he hadn’t done that, Cas would have stopped with one. As it stands, angels don’t have a refractory period. The squirming against hyper-sensitive skin becomes _slick_ , adding a whole new sensation to the mix. His cock never even gets the chance to go soft, he barely even flags a little after the orgasm.

Dean’s expecting it to be over, he’s expecting to go tumbling down, to get cleaned up, to _anything_ , but the fingers around him don’t let up.

Light suddenly goes flooding in because Cas uses his free hand to shove his boxers down. He doesn’t look, though, he doesn’t even take his hand off of himself. He just starts carefully, slowly, lazily rubbing again. Basking in this new slick feeling he didn’t have the first go around, marveling that it’s somehow even _better_.

Dean, for his part, realizes who’s got him only when the hand jerking him _slides_ him up the shaft all the way up to the head, skin bunching, his own head peeking over the tip of dick long enough to see the span of blazer, white dress shirt, tan trench coat, and then Castiel’s face. He’s reclined back on the pillows, hair tousled, eyes closed, lips parted, _moaning_ like hell at Dean’s expense. 

Dean struggles with renewed vigor, mouth opening up to yell the angel’s name only to have himself drug straight back down the length of cock again until he’s at the base. Looks like Cas isn’t interested in smashing him in one spot anymore; now that he’s slick he rests more in the curve of fingers and dick slides over him instead like it’s _fucking_ him. 

Cas passes his cock over Dean from base to tip, all the way up, all the way down, the head and the frenulum dragging over his face, his front, his chest, his crotch, his _everything_ , enjoying the interesting friction his soaking wet body brings to the experience. Over and over again Cas fucks his fist, dragging himself back and forth over Dean and rolling in the pleasure of it.

It gets tighter. His hand goes steely, tightens up around himself, speeds up, but Dean’s caught in the curve of a knuckle without escape. He’s shaken, absolutely _shaken_ back and forth over rock hard cock so unrelenting and so _tight_ he can feel the vein splitting up between his legs, a brutal constant drag. 

He can hear Castiel peaking agan, his breath coming out rapidly, soft _tsss_ and _uhnnn_ sounds that pick up in frequency until suddenly he’s _flying_ over himself, coming hard and heavy and jerking himself all the way through it. A second coating of come washes over Dean, who apparently doesn’t learn lessons the first go around.

He struggles, he squirms, Cas _moans_ , and his fingers dig circles into himself again.

Cas jerks off with Dean in his hand twice more, because _fucking angels_ is why. By the time he comes the fourth time Dean’s soaked to the bone, exhausted, and utterly limp in the angel’s hand. Too tired to fight, to struggle, to try and free himself. He misses his opportunity to escape, and Cas tucks himself back into his boxers before Dean gets a second chance. His freedom is decimated with the sound of a zipper rumbling closed again, and he’s trapped between cock and balls once more.

On the bright side, the fucking angel _mojos_ himself clean and dry - no need to even go to the bathroom to clean himself off. No chance to discover Dean, and firmly assuming that any struggling sensations he feels mean it’s time to jerk off.

He discovers Dean three days later in a new motel on a new bed, having finally gotten around to completely stripping, jerking, and lifting up his hand to catch his cum in it- only to realize Dean was there a split second before finishing. 

He’s on the edge, one stroke away as he looks down at Dean’s exhausted body, covered in precum, with the knowledge that _he’s_ what felt so good on the underside of Castiel’s cock. With the knowledge that he should stop and help the hunter, with a twinge of embarrassment, but…

So turned on that he jerks himself anyway, coming with a moan all over the small man in his cupped palm and fucking _loving_ the sight of it.


	16. Castiel purposefully sits on Tiny!Dean but pretends it's an accident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Do you think you could write something where Cas is purposefully sitting on a shrunken Dean, while Dean always thinks it’s accidental? Cas just likes how it feels to have him squirming underneath him, but obviously he’d never let Dean know that"

The first time he does it, it really is an accident. He’s roaming around the bunker in trousers, and he settles onto the couch without even hearing the protests from his tiny charge. He’s there for a solid minute, maybe two, when a pleasurable sort of squirming sensation just behind his balls catches his attention. Brow furrows, and he shifts from left to right to feel it out.

Curiosity gets the better of him and his hand slides beneath him, feeling for- oh.

“I’m so sorry, Dean, I didn’t see you there,” He says, flushing with guilt, shame, and… the smallest bit of regret that he stopped things so soon. It really had been quite a nice sensation.

Dean is, of course, shaken and pissed. He barks out a, “Be more careful next time, god damn it, you could’ve killed me!”

Except next time, he’s less careful. Next time is intentional, and he’s been waiting for the opportunity ever since the first. Sam disappears, Dean sprawls on the couch on his back watching TV, and Cas changes into a pair of the thinnest boxers he owns.

Walks in and keeps his eyes deliberately on the television so Dean won’t suspect anything, stands before the couch, and deliberately lowers himself down, slowly. Slowly, so that Dean sees every second of it. Distantly, he can hear his charge calling his name, screaming it, “CAS!”

He’s a little hard before his ass even hits the seat.

And it does, with Dean’s body lined up perfectly between his cheeks just an inch behind his balls, writhing and pounding. “CAS, CAS I’M UNDER YOU- CAS-”

He humms absently and settles back into the couch until he’s comfortable, sprawled out, wriggling a little so Dean’s a bit further in. He’s breathless in seconds, rock hard shortly thereafter, and palming himself over his boxer shorts.

If he’s careful, quiet, he can stay like this for hours and Dean will be okay- and more importantly, he’ll never know Cas did it on purpose.

Every once and a while he shifts, grinding his ass down a little more on his charge, soaking his boxers with precum and biting back moans so his charge doesn’t hear.

He wonders if he could get away with touching himself.

Realizes Dean still doesn’t know he knows he’s down there, and flushes at the idea. Fingers slide in and free himself from cotton, and Dean can feel the tell-tale feeling of the world shaking at a rhythm. Cas is full-on jerking off while he squirms away, desperate to get the angel’s attention.

The world from Dean’s perspective is a hell of a lot less carefree. His stomach filled with a swooping dread the second he saw perfectly round globes coming down, down, down. Plaid, thin boxer briefs descended like in slow motion and he tried, he really did. Tried to run, heading for the front of the couch, thinking if he could just dive between those massive hairy thighs…

It’s fruitless. The weight comes bearing down and he’s got just enough foresight to roll to the ground, flat on his back to keep his spine from getting snapped.

He lands in the perfect position to keep himself alive. Oppresive fabric pushes down on him in every direction, but doesn’t crush him. Below his waist, two perfect boxer-clad asscheeks sandwich him and softly squeeze. The ridge of perineum above his face keeps his head and neck safe, and above his head almost pressing onto his hair, the boxer-clad shape of two massive testicles. Dean screams the angel’s name, but obviously through the metric tons of flesh and cloth around him, Cas can’t hear it.

He tries, he tries to pull his legs out, tries to ram his fist into the space above his head. Two seconds later, the world shifts again and Dean thinks he’s going to get pulled out like the first time.

Not so.

The grip around his legs _clenches_ down so tight he’s got to groan, to push, to struggle. It _drags_ him back as Cas shifts further and deeper into the couch, then practically starts _grinding_ himself into it. Dean can feel the flesh of perineum precariously start to press into him, those balls above his head start rolling and the wrinkly flesh of them behind those boxers starts to spill back, smothering his face until he can barely breathe let alone yell for the angel above him.

The world goes still like that, and Dean begins to sweat. The fabric above him gets moist with his own and with the sweat from Cas’s balls. He can feel the angel’s heartbeat through them, a steady but quick constant pounding. Every once and a while he’ll try in vain to pull his legs out again, and almost like Cas is responding to an absent itch, he _grinds_ himself down on Dean again.

An hour passes like this, an eternity, stillness punctuated by grinding, until something starts to change.

The balls above his head lift off of him, then slowly roll back down over his face again. He squirms, and they lift off. He catches his breath, and Cas shifts his hips back until the entire top half of Dean’s waist is beneath them.

They stay there, but they shake over him, shake the couch beneath him, shake his entire _body_ in an up and down rhythm. It’s only when they start to pull up tight and drag Dean with them that he realizes what’s happening.

Castiel is jerking off.

They grip him and drag him further into boxer-covered flex until he wriggles, fights, squirms his way out of them and drops back down onto the couch beneath them. Right after, Cas tilts his hips back down and _grinds_ them into Dean again, and Dean can hear a reverberating moan from Cas’s stomach filling the air around him. His balls hug up tight, drag Dean deeper into them, and once gain Dean fights his way out.

Only to repeat over, and over, and _over_ again.

At one point, they drag up so hard and the shaking becomes so intense Dean thinks that’s it for him, and then he hears the guy _groan_ his way through an orgasm so intense some of the wetness of his semen spills down his balls into the boxers above Dean’s head.

Surely that’s it. Surely that’s the last of it. Surely now Cas will get up and he’ll be free.

Not the case. Cas breathes heavy and slow above him, going boneless, lazily grinding his hips into the couch, and by extension _Dean_ , long figure-eights onto his exhausted body.

This goes on for a full five minutes.

And then the shaking starts again. The grinding. The _gripping._ Frantic moaning, franting shaking, frantic _jerking_ starts again- Cas is fucking masturbating _twice_ in a twenty minute span like he’s got some kind of ridiculous angelic refractory period, like the laws of human boners don’t apply to him. He jerks, he comes, he grinds, he moans, and then the whole thing starts again.

Cas sits on him and jerks off for _four hours straight_.


	17. Castiel purposefully sits on Tiny!Dean and pretends it's accidental - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I’d love to see a continuation to the one where Cas sits on Dean (the unaware aware one) Maybe Cas could find a way to get Dean inside his boxers and between his cheeks while he lounges around the bunker or goes about his day, and Dean starts to suspect Cas"

After Castiel’s four hour marathon masturbation session, that god damn angel got up and walked away none the wiser of the hunter he’d been grinding on while he jerked - at least, that’s what Dean thinks. He’s much more careful about where he goes from that point on, and he doesn’t bring it up to the angel because – well, it’s freaking _humiliating_. He doesn’t sit on the couch alone anymore, he avoids kitchen chairs, and he figures the worst is over.

He figures stupidly, that he’ll be safe on his own bed - even though the blankets are rumpled and in disarray, and he’s hard to spot sprawled out as he is among the white sheets.

Castiel’s been impatiently waiting for his next opportunity to do it again. That last time… those hours he spent on top of Dean, rolling his little body beneath him while he touched himself… He hadn’t been able to stop. Not after the first time, nor the second, and each time he finished the notion of what he’d done had fueled an immediate follow-up erection. He spent four guilty hours nursing an insatiable arousal, telling himself that this would be the only time and that he’d need to scratch his itch with one long, solitary session to get it out of his system.

Except, as it turns out, realizing he’d done it for as long as he did and gotten away with it - and the tantalizing thought that he could potentially do it again - have been driving him absolutely insane. He looks for Dean’s minuscule form on every possible surface every day for two weeks after.

When he finds out Dean is alone and on his bed, he’s already hard changing into his thin boxers again.

He walks into Dean’s room careful to keep his eyes above bed-level, calling out gently, “Dean? I need to talk to you.”

And quickly before he can allow the hunter to respond, he descends onto the mattress. He’s flush with his victory in an instant, feeling like a predator having caught his pray, feeling a tiny body lined up between his cheeks and partially beneath his balls. He exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders and doing his best to relax into the sensation, quietly palming his cock.

He can’t do that here. He’ll have no excuse for masturbating in Dean’s room, on Dean’s bed while he’s away.

It means he needs to get them both to his own room, but in such a way that Dean doesn’t realize he’s being intentionally smothered.

He can think of only one way to do it. Quietly, he undoes the small button that keeps the front of his briefs closed. Exhales, readies himself, and in a very-quick movement lifts off Dean to sprawl himself face-down on Dean’s bed, lining his boxer opening over the Hunter’s body and grinding firmly down with his pelvis.

“Dean? Are you under the bed?” he calls again for good measure, leaning forward and swooping his hips to scoop the hunter firmly in - then stand so that he goes tumbling down the fabric and into the space beneath Castiel’s balls. He tugs the waistband up to seal him against them, and then begins to walk. He moves quickly, savoring the feeling of Dean’s squirming body against his bouncing sack, and disappears into his own room in the bunker. 

When he sits this time, it’s onto a firm desk chair - and it’s by carefully grinding his hips forward so that Dean lands not under his balls, but directly under his ass. From there it’s a slow, careful squirm - left to right, right to left, gently separating his cheeks in a way he hopes seems absent and natural. It takes nearly fifteen minutes of back and forth before he feels confident that Dean is completely wedged between his left and right cheek, precariously close to a place he’s certain Dean very much does not want to go.

That isn’t the goal, at any rate. The goal is simply…

To stand. To stand, allow his ass cheeks to come together again and firmly settle around him, and know that Dean is completely engulfed in the mass of them. He can vaguely, vaguely feel squirming. His cock goes rigid. He takes a single step, testing - then another. Left cheek slides against him, then settles back again. Right cheek rises and falls. Dean’s still firmly wedged, and he gives his glutes a little flex to clench down on him. Dean starts kicking up a fuss immediately, writhing in response to the tight grip, and Castiel has never been harder in his life.

He does, however, have self-control. He takes gratifying long strides toward his folded suit pants, and he gently pulls them on over top of his boxer briefs. With Dean sealed inside him, Castiel has plans for a mission.

He thinks he’d like to have some kind of intercourse while his hunter is trapped there. He thinks he’d like to leave Dean trapped there for longer than four hours this time. He thinks… he thinks he’d like to make it a full day, of sitting and masturbating and talking to Sam while he subtly clenches and unclenches his ass.

He thinks he’ll leave Dean there for the foreseeable future.


	18. Tiny!Dean insists Cas stop treating him like glass, Cas accidentally discovers he gets off on the power dynamic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://66.media.tumblr.com/b7c19abb2cf958281291d75024ccb5d8/tumblr_pncsiz67lA1wo98pho1_1280.png)

In hindsight, he’s starting to regret this decision.   
  
It started a few weeks back when, for the hundredth time, Cas stopped in the middle of jerking it with his brow wrinkled up and an uncertain, “Are- are you okay? Was that too tight?”   
  
Frankly, it was a boner killer. Dean’s always had kind of a _thing_ for rough sex, getting manhandled and jerked around. He had to reassure the guy another time that a little rough play was more than fine, it was _desired_ and it still took a borderline argument for him to really Get It. What followed was almost a pointedly rough round of the closest thing to sex they could have, resulting in Cas taking out some of his frustrations and Dean having one of the best orgasms he’s had in months.

And then things started to go downhill fast.

Cas started to “forget” how hard he was jerking off with Dean sandwiched in between his hand and his cock, which was hot as hell in the beginning until that grip got more and more crushing, until Cas started moaning so loud he couldn’t even hear Dean calling out to him, until he felt every single twitch and pulse of blood during Cas’s orgasm, every throb pushed the last of his air out of his lungs and he nearly passed out.

He didn’t wanna ream the guy considering all the conviction he put into their conversation, so he played it off and limped all through the next day, sore and battered. Throughout it, he noticed Castiel’s eyes on him everywhere he went, every careful step he took, the tiny groans he made as he sat down. Started to pick up on just how dark they got.

At first, he thought the guy was pissed at him. When Cas scooped him up for bed, he thought he was getting carried into another argument about his safety.

Instead, Cas stripped and took his cock out. As horny as he generally is, as much as he wants to prove himself, even _he_ has his limits and he’s got to admit he doesn’t have it in him for another night of borderline crushing.

“I thought we were being _rough_ ,” Cas commented in lieu of putting the concept to rest, holding Dean in his left and and his dick in his right. He was still standing, stark naked, with Dean held loosely down below his waist so that he had to crane his neck up, up, up just to see the guy’s face. It’s sloping chest like a skyscraper, the curve of mountainous shoulders, and… the underside of chin, because Cas didn’t even bother tilting his face down to completely look at Dean. Instead, he gets the sharp cut of a jaw, the profile of a cheek and nose, and the dark look of one eye.

As Dean stared up, movement in his peripheral caught his attention. Over to his left, Cas’s hand began working himself. Already half hard and rapidly growing, jerking steadily beside him like he was supposed to _look_ at it instead of Cas’s face.

“Yeah, I mean… sure, that’s great and all, but after last night… Man, I’m sore from head to toe,” Dean admitted weakly, shifting back in the angel’s palm, trying to look at _face_ and failing. His attention keeps getting quickly diverted to the slick skin on skin sounds to his left, Cas still pumping a cock now three or four times his size.

“This was your decision,” Cas reminded him empathetically, guiding his left hand closer to where his right was working so that Dean was side by side with it- or, sort of. Too small to really be compared, probably.

From his place in the curve of Castiel’s fingers he doesn’t have much else to look at. Straight ahead is neatly groomed pubic hair, giving way to a smooth stomach and the flat plane of abs. To the right, the fuzzy outline of furniture so far away they’re like the fading ridgelines of distant mountains.

To the left, he sees blunt fingernails on fingers the size of trees, wrapped around the now-hard flesh of a cock so tight that the skin shifts with his grip, a steady circling that’s looking a little bit slick from precum already.

Straight up, Cas has finally tilted his head down and wide blue eyes stare down at him with dilated pupils and parted lips.

“You wanted rough, I’ve given you rough. You can’t even… imagine how it feels to know that _this_ -” the fingers of his right hand ghost down his dick to the base, guide it over where Dean is in his left. “Is all it took to incapacitate you. One night of nearly unremarkable masturbation and you can barely walk. All the time and trouble you put through people- beings so much greater than yourself, and yet _this_ conquered you in a night.”

The fingers of his right hand twitch, lifting the dick and then nudging it down into a sort of soft slap. At least, to Castiel’s perspective it was just a gentle tap, to Dean the full weight of it smacked him down in an instant. All three or four times his length, two or three times his girth, thrust down onto already sore muscles and knocking him flat on his back beneath the thing. He grunts out of sheer soreness, stiffness, and weakly pushes at it trying to get it off him. 

In response, Cas’s hips twitch- a barely there in and out of his own fist, grinding Dean into his palm.

“Seriously- whatever this whole… BDSM thing is you’re trying to do, can we take a raincheck on it until I can feel my goddamn legs?” Dean snaps into the underside of Castiel’s cock, but Cas doesn’t seem to hear him.

“I was once the size of your Chrysler building, you know. I think at this rate… we’re roughly to scale. How we’re supposed to be. How I should be to you. You’re so much smaller than even _this_ that I…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he doesn’t have to. Dean can feel him throb, can feel the fingers of his left hand tighten enough to rub him into Castiel’s frenulum like an absent answer. “I think I didn’t realize how much I’d enjoy it.”

Cas’s dick lifts off, but not for long. With his right hand, he angles the head of his enormous dick down until Dean’s face to face with the slit. Dips forward and begins _rubbing_ it over Dean’s face, precum smearing and nearly choking him. Dean’s arms shoot out to push vainly at the head, and Cas rumbles out a pleased moan. The dick lifts again, and then harder than the first time _slams_ down on him as Cas absently smacks his left hand with his cock. Two, three, four times just _tap tap tap tap_ lightly, then pulling back to watch Dean struggle for breath beneath it. 

“I think,” Cas murmurs lowly, darkly, grinding Dean once again into the underside of his dick. “I think I’m going to come on you. I think I might do it every night this week, and I don’t think there’s anything you can do about it.”

And it’s with that thought Cas starts jerking himself off in earnest.


	19. Tiny!Sam gets caught in the middle of Cas and Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Promt Tiny sam stucked some how under Dean's croth and/or balls while castiel does dean from behinde, non of them know that sam is there"

It’s been hours since Dean tucked a tiny Sam in for bed, and Sam’s been passed out on the pillow ever since. Dean, too, caught a wave of drowsiness, and in a fit of protectiveness, decided to sleep on the same bed. He doesn’t toss or turn much in his sleep, so being confined to one side of it should pose no threat. It would have been fine, if Cas hadn’t flown in unannounced in the middle of the night. He took no notice of Sam, only of his sleeping boyfriend looking warm and appealing, sprawled there on his belly.

It’s been a while since they’ve had any time. It’s always some case, some mission, some war, and Castiel resolves not to let this opportunity go awry. Carefully, in the dark, he strips away his coat and his suit. His shoes are tucked away in a corner, and with a single touch of his hand, his boyfriend is also naked- and still completely unconscious. Waking a sleeping Winchester is a precarious thing indeed, unless one knows the right way to handle it. Waking Dean up with sex? Always a sure-fire good idea. He moves across the room silently, bracing a knee on the mattress and reaching up to tug a free pillow down from the head of the bed.

It’s all the movement that wakes Sam up. It’s pitch dark until his eyes adjust, and he starts to stand. He’s knocked back onto his back, though, as the ground beneath him lurches. 

“What the- Dean?” His cold, it seems has stripped him from his voice on top of all his other ailments, and his harsh whisper doesn’t even make it over the sound of rustling fabric. His eyes adjust barely in time to see a mound of skin over him, and then he comprehends what he’s looking at. It’s a pale hand supporting lightly tanned, enormous hips, and it looks like his destination is beneath them. He barely has time to protest before the enormous, crushing weight is settled on top of him.

Cas nudges a pillow gently beneath his sleeping boyfriend’s pelvis for support, then gently parts his thighs. Carefully slicked fingers begin to probe, lightly enough so as to not wake the man beneath him. Even so, Dean’s dreams take a pleasant turn, a sleepy mumble works its way out of his throat and he shifts in his sleep, hips nudging around to find a comfortable position.

It turns out, that position is achieved by sliding his half-hard cock up between his brother’s legs, and settling the head of it right on top of Sam’s struggling chest. The weight of it is nearly unbearable, and shoving his way out accomplishes absolutely nothing. He’s trapped, staring down the barrel of a slit almost as large as he is, completely unthought of by his sleeping brother or the angel slowly preparing behind him. 

As soon as Cas is sure Dean can take him, he shifts the rest of the way onto the bed and slides his knees between Dean’s splayed legs. A gentle nudge later, and the head of his cock breaches. He slides slowly, agonizingly slowly until he’s fully sheathed, and collapses down onto his boyfriend with a muffled groan. The added weight and pressure force Dean’s hips forward, and his cock slides up Sam’s face, clears his head by an inch or two and _stays_ there for a long moment while Castiel breathes. 

A second later, Cas eases off again, and slowly pulls out. Dean’s hips shift back again, and his cock inches down the entire length of Sam’s body until his head is exposed, and he can breathe again. ‘Thank _god_ that’s over’ no sooner runs through his mind before it’s happening _again_ , and it sinks in what’s about to happen. Oh, god, no…

It starts slow. It’s barely even a rhythm, considering how agonizingly slowly Cas drags his cock in and out, prolonging the sickeningly sweet pleasure of seeing Dean so out of it, of hearing his breath slowly start to pick up as arousal fights with dreams. Dean’s cock slowly twitches, hardens, bears down on Sam with thicker, hotter pressure. A spike of lust rolls through him as Cas nudges his prostate, and his hips roll unconsciously, back into it, then down hard into the pillow, seeking friction. The friction he finds is _Sam_ , which is evidently good enough to warrant a second sleepy, luxurious thrust. Cas murmurs his approval, hands sliding up Dean’s back to lace gently through his fingers. They grip the top of the mattress together and set up a gentle rhythm, a slow but steady rocking that drags Dean back into the waking world.

His eyes blink slowly open as he tries to comprehend it all, and when he does, he _groans_ , lust ripping down his spine. 

“Nnngh, _Damn_ , you know how to wake a guy up. _Fuck_.” He murmurs, hissing something hot and approving through his teeth. His legs spread more widely, knees splayed, hips rocking back and forth, pelvis rocking into the heat behind him and then down into the pillow again in thumping thrusts.

“I thought perhaps you might enjoy that,” Cas agrees, a smirk in his voice as he lifts off of Dean and presses a hand between his shoulder blades. He sits up, balances himself onto his knees, changes the angle so as to hit Dean’s prostate with every rolling tap. 

“ _Jesus-_ yeah, yeah, just like that-“ Dean mutters, eyes screwing shut, teeth biting down on his lower lip. “God, I think this is the best- fuck, this is the best we’ve ever- you’ve ever-“

He doesn’t know _what’s_ different, just that he’s already chasing the line, already tingling and twitching, fire riding through his veins and pleasure ripping through his cock.

For Sam, the voices are distorted. They’re deep and low, they rumble through the bodies above him, but he can’t even concentrate on understanding them with the barrage of hot cock fucking over him thrust after relentless thrust. Dean’s _literally_ fucking him, and _loving it_ based on the way he seems to aims his dick, seems to seek Sam out, seems to pointedly pass his most sensitive places over Sam’s chest and face with every slick nudge. He can hear bitten off moans that seemed to tear into sound exactly when he starts to squirm to get away again, and it doesn’t take him long to realize _he’s_ part of the cause for them. 

“Ah, tssss, yeah, I’m gonna-“ 

Now _that_ he understands, and he stares in horror at the pulsing head above him, already beading with precum. “No, no, nononono- Dean- _please_ _\- stop, Dean, don’t, I’m down here_ _\- DEAN_ DON’T-“

“ _OH, FUCK YEAH-_ ffffffuckkkk—“

Dean grunts, pelvis pistoning downward, driving his hips down into the sweet pressure of the pillow beneath him. His cock only half-covers Sam, so Sam can feel the impending throb right before that slit opens above him and Dean _comes_ , liquid bursting forth and spilling all over the pillow. _Again_ it happens, a heavy throb, a hitch in Dean’s moaning, a pointed thrust over Sam’s face through the slickness of it, a pull back, a gush- three, four times as seed spills out of him, slow and pointed nudges to drag out his orgasm.

Cas moans then, too, at the feeling of muscles spasming around him, and he grips Dean’s hips, snaps them back into his own with ferocious speed, panting his way through orgasm. When he’s done, they both collapse heavily forward, crushing Sam into the soft fabric of a wet pillow, trapped under Dean’s rapidly deflating cock.

He expects them to move, to roll over, to get cleaned up, but they _don’t_. Minutes tick by, then an hour, Sam can feel his brother’s heartbeat from there trapped under the base of his dick, and it slows. Evens out. Rhythmic breathing fills the air, and they fall asleep that way, Cas sprawled along Dean’s back, Dean sprawled out on the bed, and Sam trapped beneath his crotch.


	20. Tiny!Sam gets stuck in a slit during Dean and Cas's sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I love your work! I wouldn't mind seeing maybe Sam getting stuck in Dean's slit or Cas' slit without them paying attention and him going on a wild ride of some sort."

Sam lost track of time. It must have been hours since Cas came in, since he slid Sam’s pillow beneath Dean’s hips and Dean humped him mercilessly. The two fell asleep, weight bearing down on him, keeping him pinned under Dean’s flaccid cock. Truth be told, Sam had fallen into an exhausted, oxygen-deprived doze as well, but a sudden sensation had him waking up again. For one terrifying moment, he was _convinced_ that Dean was getting hard again- the flesh above him was moving and expanding, sliding along his naked chest. He was proven wrong, though, when he realized Dean was as soft as ever.

No, what was happening was actually a hell of a lot more worrisome- he was getting _smaller_. Judging on what they knew about the curse, his size was determined by his health. The strenuous nature of what he’d been put through was worse on his cold, and as such, he dwindled from a small two inches to something even tinier. Slipped below an inch, and stopped shrinking at just about half an inch tall. 

The good news, though, was that slipping and sliding and decreasing in size dislodged him pretty effectively from the way he’d been trapped under Dean’s dick. With a little wriggling, he tugged himself out from the rim of the head and pulled himself to his feet, standing in the pocket of space beneath Dean’s hips and above his cock head. The pillow was firm beneath his feet, and he searched the darkness looking for an exit. Miles and miles of flesh were his ceiling, miles and miles of semen stained fabric his floor, and who even knew the threats that lay beyond that?

He wouldn’t get a chance to find out. 

Dean let out a sleepy murmur, and shifted his hips. It happened in what felt like slow motion, one moment the world was stable for Sam, and the next it was an earthquake. The slightest movement shook the ground beneath his feet, knocking him onto his back. Dean’s hips shifted upward an inch as he realigned his back, and his cock came soaring forward as a result, wide open and sliding up the length of the pillow where Sam lay. On instinct, Sam kicked out wildly, trying to scurry back. All he accomplished was getting his legs stuck up to the thigh in a slit that closed as quickly and thoughtlessly as it had opened, clamping down on Sam’s lower half.

Sam froze, breathing heavy, terror racing through him. Getting humped by his horny brother was one thing, he could survive that, but _this?_ If things go bad here, Dean might legitimately never find him again. He could get killed, or worse, he could get flushed away if Dean woke up with the call of nature. He’d never even look, never think to check. Sam had to get out of there. The pressure on his legs was immense, though, and he bent forward at the waist, pushing at the skin above and around the slit, kicking and moving his legs to dislodge them.

“Mmm,” Dean murmured in his sleep, lips parting softly. He was fucked out from his earlier session, still buzzing in a few places, and his mind replayed the events in the form of a dream- probably entirely due to that little tingle that felt real nice. Enough time had passed that his refractory period was well and over, and blood began to tentatively run south.

Dean’s cock twitched.

What that meant for Sam was a sudden jerk, which tugged him up into the air a foot or two. The slit opened and then closed again like a giant mouth, tugging him in another several inches. He was up to his chest now, his arms and elbows the only thing keeping him from being swallowed whole. He could feel the flesh getting firmer around him, could feel the still slow pulse of blood start to pick up a little speed, and he’s not ashamed to say he panicked. Fists began to pound on the fleshy head of his brother’s cock, body twisting and kicking and struggling. “ _Dean! DEAN- CAS, DEAN- WAKE UP, GOD DAMN IT, DON’T LET ME GET LOST IN HERE- PLEASE-_ “

Sam kicking up a ruckus wasn’t doing any favors. Dean hummed again, sleep fading for the second time that night as his morning wood grew inch by steady inch. He yawned, shifted beneath the arm Cas had thrown over his waist. His legs stretched out, arms soared over his head, and he cracked his back with a lazy pop. Taking his weight off of his limbs meant his cock slammed back down into the pillow, leaving Sam gripping tightly and screaming a sound too small for either of them to hear. Light began to pour in as he soared through the air, and he could see distant, blurry, colorful shapes. He couldn’t tell what they were, everything was too far away save for the skin stretching out in either direction like a mountain- hell, he couldn’t even make out his brother’s face anymore. It was just cock, miles of it, a distant thicket of hair, and nothing else. He was so fucking small.

Dean rolled over onto his back, rolled his head to one side and smiled a soft smile at the black bedhead nestled beside him. Cas didn’t strictly _need_ to sleep, but there was something to said about the pleasant intimacy that comes with bedding down and passing out with your partner. Now that he was up and awake, maybe he could return the favor Cas so graciously granted him the night before. His cock was already rock hard just thinking about it, and Dean had to shake his head. “What the hell’d you _do_ to me, huh? Angel Mojo me up a boner?”

It had to be that- this is the horniest and most sensitive he’s been in _years_. He was practically _throbbing_ already, and he wasn’t even doing anything yet. Absently, a hand dropped down to wrap around his cock and give it one long upward stroke. 

Sam saw the hand. He saw it enter his field of vision, saw it loom in slowly, and it wrapped around the flesh beneath him. Things began to shift with the harsh sound of skin on skin, and as Dean’s hand slowly made it to the top of his cock, the slit around him closed _hard_ , squeezing him tight. He gasped, struggled for air, struggled to _move_ within the flesh pulsing around him, kicking and stimulating nerve endings with his tiny body. 

Dean hummed in pleasure, swallowed down a hitched breath, and traced a thumb over the head of his cock.

Sam yelled- practically _screamed_ as one huge digit loomed into view. He could see every single line of fingerprint heading right for him as though with a purpose, as though _intentional_ , and without his brother even being aware, Dean forced Sam the rest of the way down. His arms lost their grip on flesh and he was forced a little less than an inch down into that pulsing tube. It was _so tight_ he could barely move, he could feel Dean’s heartbeat through the walls, he could see the light above his head beaming down at him through Dean’s open slit, and he could _feel_ Dean’s grip sliding down his cock again, squishing him even tighter, passing from head to foot and then slackening as it made it’s way down the rest of his cock. 

“Oh, god,” Dean muttered, shifting. “Cas- Cas wake up, we gotta do this- we gotta do this _now_.”

“Dean, what-“ He cut Cas off short with a bruising kiss, and Castiel, of course, did not protest. Dean was frantic, a man on fire as his hands traveled desperately over Cas’s chest, over his hips, dipped lower to grasp his cock and stir it awake. It didn’t take much effort, Castiel was always a team player, and Dean’s attitude alone had him hard and wanting.

“Did you want to-“ He asked, voice sleep rough and- if possible- even more gruff than usual.

“Anything, man, _please_.” 

Cas nods, eyes dropping to Dean’s swollen and aching member. Long fingers dip down, skip the foreplay, and wrap right around it. Dean moans his encouragement, and Cas begins to pump slowly. 

Sam is so screwed. He knows it, there’s no avoiding it. That circular pressure tightens again and he knows there’s a hand on Dean’s cock, gripping tight right where he’s stuck. It lowers, and Sam’s pulled with it, dropping down another inch or so. The light gets further away. That pressure slackens and squeezes the flesh above his head, and the light winks out as Dean’s slit closes. Winks open again as the hand slides lower, he can feel it grip him tight as it passes over him, and then slides all the way down to the base again. It’s a slow rhythm, one that’s starting to repeat- up, squeeze, up, darkness, down, squeeze, down. It only takes three or four passes for it before Dean’s cock throbs for the first time, and that’s a _whole different_ kind of torture. It’s all the walls around him pulsing and gripping at once, locking him down and pounding hard, and he struggles against it, fights it, kicks and gropes and tries to crawl for the surface.

This has Dean moaning like a whore in church. 

“Shit- stop- stop- oh, fuck-“ He jerks away, one hand dropping to grip the base of his dick tightly. Cas shies off as Dean breathes, slow and steady breaths as he tries to calm his twitching cock. “Christ, I haven’t- it’s been a long damn time since I had that close a call with a _hand job_. We gotta do this _now_ ,”

Cas doesn’t protest. He’s on his back and ready to go in seconds, and Dean groans as he braces the head of his dick at the entrance. 

For Sam, the light is completely gone. Slick moisture’s starting to ooze up from beneath him, coating him and making the passageway slippery as it slides up, up, up, and out in a way that he’s too big to mimic. He’s lodged there and, if anything, sliding a little lower as his way is moistened by hot, persistent precum. Every thrash, every bit of protest now draws a hard throb of approval from Dean’s dick, and when the light disappears… well, he knows what’s about to happen.

Dean pushes in. 

Sam’s gripped so tightly, he’s convinced his ribs are broken.

Dean’s cock twitches and throbs and he has to stop, panting and heaving against Cas’s chest to adjust.

Cas is _loving_ Dean’s moans, his desperation, his muscles clench down tight, ripple in encouragement. 

Dean tentatively thrusts, twice, and has to stop again because coming after two thrusts is just… it’s just pathetic.

Cas doesn’t give a shit about his track record- he wants to see Dean _lose it_ like he can tell the hunter’s going to, so he thrusts his hips up.

Sam’s nudged down another inch, until he’s inside, right inside, right beneath that spot Dean loves, that spot Dean devotes half his attention to when he jerks off, _that spot_ but _inside_. Sam squirms, Cas rocks tight against him, and Dean can’t hold it together anymore. He _slams_ his hips forward, fucking _rocks_ at the speed of light and he’s _catapulted_ over that line with fire and electricity soaring through his cock, down his back, unfurling in his belly.

Sam’s still lodged there. Cum is everywhere around him, struggling to get past him, coating him as he stoppers things like a plug, as he makes things about a hundred times more intense just by _existing_ , and as he fights to breathe, he drags Dean’s orgasm out longer than it’s ever been. He’s gripping Cas’s hips tightly as he throws his head back, his vision’s going white and he’s got no discernible rhythm as his hips stutter, rocking desperately into Cas’s hole as he cums, as he just _doesn’t stop_.

Finally, the pressure’s too much. Finally, Sam shoots out of him with a particularly furiously strong burst, and Dean collapses onto Cas, forehead sweating with effort, chest heaving, cock throbbing now with exhaustion, too sensitive for him to even pull out just yet. 

“…What the _hell_ was _that_?” He gasps, brow screwed up in incredulous confusion, green eyes wide and uncomprehending in the face of what has to have been the best orgasm he’s ever had. Which is saying something, considering how things felt last night.

“Please save your investigation for after you’ve returned the favor,” Cas demands, lust roughening his voice rather than sleep now, blue eyes blown and dark after the display he’s just seen. Dean can’t help but huff out a desperate, breathless laugh and comply. He ducks down, lips wrapping around Cas’s cock. Fingers dip low, circle Cas’s abused rim, and slide in easily thanks to the semen coating it. He probes gentle and soft, searching, searching.

Of course, of course, his fingertips find Sam. For a second, a delirious second, Sam thinks he’s saved. 

But he isn’t. Rather than pulling him out, no, rather than freeing him of his sticky mess, of the hot and tender flesh he’s plastered to, those fingers _press down_ and Cas groans in appreciation. They work, dragging Sam up and down and around, press him right up against Cas’s prostate and massage him into the ridges until Cas, too, is spasming his way through orgasm. It’s sheer dumb luck that Sam sticks to Dean’s finger as he pulls them out, and he’s smeared carelessly onto the same pillow upon which he started.

He’s made about 345345 promises to a god he doesn’t even believe in anymore just to _survive_ this whole ordeal, and now that he has, he lay panting, battered, broken, abused, forgotten, and swearing to high heaven that he is never, ever going to have sex again- and neither is anyone else, not if _he_ has anything to say about it.


	21. Sam stuck in Castiel's slit while Dean gives him a blowjob

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What if Sam is stuck in Dean's slit while Cas is giving him a bj?"

That would be a terrible time for Sam, but the best blowjob Cas has ever felt. It’s unfortunate that he didn’t notice the hunter in time to save him, unfortunate that he went tumbling from Dean’s shirt onto Cas’s swollen and sticky head.   
  
It seemed for a while like he might be able to get out, but the sudden appearance of his brother’s fleshy, unrelenting tongue quickly erased his hope. It pushes at him and prods him unrelentingly, forcing him leg-first into Castiel’s slit. 

Cas lets out a broken moan at the feeling, which is enough to get Dean’s attention. The tongue disappears as he sits up, grinning and accomplished, and Sam has a chance to take stock of his surroundings. Massive slippery head spreads out around him for feet, and past that? The unfuckingbelievable scale of his brother towering overhead, leaning in to kiss Cas. Screaming at the top of his lungs isn’t even as loud as the sound of their sloppy makeout session.

Below him, Dean absently jerks Castiel’s dick. When his hand slides up near the tip, Castiel’s slit squeezes him about the waist and forces the air from his lungs. Great gobs of precum leak out around him, erasing his purchase. 

A looming thumb swipes in, and Sam finds himself begging. “No, no, no, please don’t push me in- Dean, Dean! Please don’t push me in-”

Of course, Dean can’t hear him. The ridges of Dean’s fingerprints slide over him, forcing him in up to the chin in one single motion. 

“Dean!”

Dean looks down, and for a blessed moment, Sam thinks he’s seen. His brother’s face soars downward toward him, lips parting, eyes locked on Sam’s. And then his tongue slides out, and Sam realizes he’s too covered, to pushed in, too far, for Dean to even see. Dean’s tongue forces him the rest of the way in, and all Sam can see is darkness.

The world around him pulses, and he can hear Cas groaning, reverberating through his body. Something about this BJ is different, better than the rest. Something about it feels REALLY GOOD, and his hand fists in Dean’s hair to keep his mouth firmly on Cas’s dick. A sweet, tickling sort of sensation slides down his shaft until it’s on the other side of that bundle of nerves that feels the best, and god- he’s so close but he never wants it to stop.

Cas’s cock pulses in time with his heartbeat, clamping down on Sam. At the same time, Dean’s mouth sucks and slides up and down, squishing him and loosening on him. 

The closer Cas is to coming, the farther down his shaft Sam finds himself falling until his soaking feet hit some sort of flap. It closes around his foot and he squirms, kicks, fights-

The best feeling Cas has ever felt in his balls ultimately pushes him over the edge, and he COMES around Sam, pulsing and throbbing, with Dean gripping Cas’s cock in such a way that it prevents him from shooting up with the semen.

“DEAN-” He can hear Cas shouting, but he’s trapped somewhere, struggling to breathe, dark.


	22. Drunk!Castiel uses Tiny!Dean and Sam as masturbation aids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sam and Dean get shrunk, a worried Cas gets drunk. And Drunk Cas means horny Cas. So, putting one boy near his asshole, and one on his balls, he asks them to help him out."

They don’t want to, of course, but Cas isn’t having that. 

“I wasn’t really asking,” he says, and a finger dips in to push Sam gently forth into his asshole. Once the hunter’s in up to his waist he leans forward, settling heavy balls on top of Dean. The only thing sticking out from beneath them is Dean’s head, and he can see up massive wrinkly sack to a thick cock, Cas’s fingers sliding up and down it, and Cas’s face looming over him staring at him as he jerks himself off.

On every up stroke the balls lift up off of him just a little, and on every down stroke they slam back into him. It’s slow at first, with Cas breathing softly, taking smooth and circular motions.

And then he leans forward, rolling his balls over Dean’s face and jerking a few times before he leans back again. It makes Dean squirm beneath them, which feels really pleasant, so he does it again every so often, rolling forth so Dean can’t breathe, jerking faster, then rolling back to look at his gasping face as he works his cock.

“I enjoy seeing you under them,” he gasps, and Dean can barely hear him over the slick sound of skin on skin as he jerks. “It feels really nice, the way you- you grab them.”

And from nowhere, a second hand slides in to pluck Dean up and push him into the space between his wrinkly sack. Pushed between his testicles, Cas rolls them in his hand. They tighten, pulling Dean in a bit further the closer he is to orgasm.

Meanwhile, his asshole clenches reflexively, and Sam’s squirming inadvertently works him deeper into his ass. He likes it.

“You two are doing a really- really great job, I appreciate this more than you know. I think- what if maybe we leave you like this? No more hunting, just… making me come. I keep you safe, you keep me happy. I think that’s the best strategy.”


	23. Castiel is irreverent of Tiny!Dean and Tiny!Sam, masturbates blatantly in front of them - then uses them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Can you do one where Tiny Sam and Tiny Dean get caught in a Casterbation moment??? ilu, bye."

The thing about being in Castiel’s care is that he has totally different definitions of propriety than a human might. The three of them sit on a recliner watching television, with Sam and Dean between Castiel’s enormous thighs and the footrest propped up. It’s peaceful, for a while.

Until Skinemax comes on, and no amount of, “Um, Cas…” really seems to get through to him that he ought to change the channel. Cas is as large as the Chrysler building above them, stretching out for what feels like miles in any direction, and he’s got the remote firmly stashed in a trenchcoat pocket.

“NO, I WANT TO WATCH THIS,” He says, and his voice is deep, reverberating, all-encompassing, impossible to argue with. It isn’t long before it’s clear that the sex is getting to him. Dean and Sam can see a tent four or five times their size starting to form in those black trousers of his, and Dean barks out an incredulous, “Seriously, dude??”

“IT’S PERFECTLY NATURAL,” Cas dismisses them without even looking down, like they’re nothing. Like their embarrassment is insignificant, and they might as well not even be there. Shortly after, enormous hands descend and the unbuckling of a belt practically deafens them. The rumbling of Castiel’s zipper follows it, and from it Castiel pulls a pale, rock-hard cock the size of a fucking school bus.

“You can NOT possibly do that while we’re here,” Sam protests, and Cas doesn’t take his eyes off of the television. 

“IF YOU DON’T WANT TO GET HURT OR DROWN I SUGGEST YOU STAY WHERE YOU ARE,” Is all he says, voice a little breathless as his hand starts to bounce. Dean can only stare in awe as a set of balls- each larger than a car- begin to bounce before him. Cas’s hand jerks, works himself, flies up and down his enormous cock and he moans low in the back of his throat. 

The sound of him jerking off is almost deafening, skin on skin, slick and slapping and filthy. Sam’s at a loss for words, and does his best to walk to the end of the recliner between toes that curl with pleasure. 

Dean, on the other hand… Well, he can’t seem to take his eyes off of what’s going on above him. For the briefest of moments his eyes go from Cas’s cock up, up, up, to his face- and that’s when he realizes blue eyes are staring at him from over the tip of Cas’s dick. Cas stares directly at him as he works himself, jerking off before a tiny Dean like he’s getting off on Dean being stuck down there watching him. 

When he meets Dean’s eye his hand goes faster, lips parting, eyebrows knitting like he’s in pain. He must be close, and breathlessly he asks, “DEAN, MAY I FINISH ON YOU-”

“HELL no-”

His answer doesn’t seem to matter. 

“I’M GOING TO-”

Cas plucks him up with urgency and the next thing Dean knows he’s in one palm facing the head of a dick while the other hand works it, a low rumble fills the air, and Cas explodes on him in thick streaks of spurting semen. Cas works every last drop from himself onto Dean’s flailing form, struggling to stay afloat in a pool of it, arms breaking the surface and scrambling for Cas’s fingers to haul himself out.

Cas moans, low and needy and satisfied, watching him struggle.

Castiel isn’t thrilled that Sam chose to wander away during his session. Once Dean is set aside to recover, Cas is content to reach down past his now-soft cock, between powerful thighs, and pluck up Sam who struggles in his grip.

“It isn’t fair to Dean that he be the only one to suffer,” Cas chastises him, lowering him toward deflated cock. Sam’s about an inch tall, just about perfect size for Cas to start working him in feet-first in his soft, still-slick slit. Sam kicks, flails, fights, but it does him no good, and before long Cas manages to get him in all the way up to his neck.

It’s a tight squeeze, not terribly unlike being bound from head to toe in fleshy rope. Once he’s in, Cas’s hand drops away and his dick falls gently forward, still mostly soft with Sam stuck inside. He gets a clear view up Cas’s belly, his chest, to his sloping jaw and dispassionate gaze.

“You can stay there until the next time, and once I finish I’m sure it’ll work you out.”

And with that, Cas turns his eyes back to the television, resolutely ignoring Sam’s struggles.

If anything, they only hasten along his next erection.


	24. Micro Extreme - Gabriel shrinks an entire city and places it on Castiel's bed before his jerk off session

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I’m so glad to see you! How about a toughie: Gabe shrinks Sam and Dean and puts them in a fake city so small Cas only sees dust on his bed before he decides to masturbate."

They think it’s an earthquake at first. Them and the hundred or so other people out on the street, looking around, looking at buildings, all of them shaking and crumbling.

Until Sam looks up… and up… and up.

And up.

The sky is nothing but miles of crotch, wrinkly balls that lead way to the curve of a shaft where the sun ought to be. Hands so bafflingly large that a single fingerprint could snuff the city from existence. They can’t even see the person behind the cock, and a collective city’s screaming isn’t even a blip on the radar for whatever god or monster it is - practically continent sized.

A hand works up and down in ways that seem slow motion to them, sliding up miles of dick and then back down again, clearing so much space it’s almost hard to understand.

A low, rumbling, deafening noise like the true voice of an angel fills the air, but it isn’t that. It’s just his normal speaking voice, and muted at that, muffled, trying to keep it down. He has no clue thousands of people are watching the event unfold.

It just feels good.

A few people run, but the space they clear is so minuscule compared to the apocalyptic event above them it’s not even worth the time. Dean prays for him to stop, but Cas just moans - too small for even prayers, apparently. 

And then he shifts, shakes the world again. Topples skyscrapers with just the motion of his body on the box spring. The cock descends, from perpendicular to pointing straight forward toward them, a slit bigger than the city itself, and there’s no denying it. He’s going to cum, and the force of it is going to wipe the entire city.

The groans become earth-shattering. The motion becomes faster.

It feels amazing.

Cas wouldn’t stop for all the money in the world.


	25. Unaware Wincest - Tiny Sam in Dean's Fleshlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hmmmm. Well, here's a prompt if you're interested (: Sam is shrunk & gets stuck to the end of Dean's favorite sex toy, which Dean chooses to have some special alone time with, completely unaware of what he's putting Sam through. Please & thank you 😘"

It just so happens Dean’s favorite toy is a fleshlight. Sam finds himself at the very end of it, but it isn’t all that huge to begin with. He doesn’t know where he is, not at first. It’s almost clear, sort of a foggy translucent so that daylight streams into it easily and the world outside is a colorful blur like the outside of a shower stall. 

Loud, reverberating thumps shake the world that he’ll later realize are footsteps. He sees clear ridges, soft silicon swirls and rings, and an opening to the tunnel at the very end. Shortly thereafter, dark fleshy-looking masses wrap around the tunnel and then the world shakes, throwing him back against the far wall.

Some loud sound fills the air, a grumbled, “MMMM.” He doesn’t know what it is or what’s going on, but it sounds somehow familiar. There’s a friction-y ear-splitting squeak, a pop, a slick sound of skin on skin, and soon a shadow fills the entrance.

It takes him a minute to realize what he’s looking at. A flesh-colored smooth-looking rounded thing with a dark doorway-sized slit at the top. It hovers at the entrance like it’s waiting for him to realize what it is, and coincidentally it pushes in the second he does.

It’s a cock head. It glides smoothly forth like a predator, clearing an insane amount of distance in almost no time, and for a startling second Sam thinks it’s going to crush him against the back wall.

It doesn’t. It stops just a few feet shy of him and he’s left staring eye to eye at it, slit agape, an arm’s length away. Above him, another “mmm” sound. The cock slowly, slowly retreats. Stupidly, ridiculously, he thinks it’s over. The cock leaves the fleshlight entirely.

And then it’s back again, sliding forth. It doesn’t pause the second time, just pulls out as quickly as it went in, and it doesn’t fully leave. That’s when Sam’s situation really occurs to him. His brother’s jacking himself off with this thing, and he has no idea.

“DEAN- DEAN STOP, I’M IN HERE-” But he’s drown out by a soft moan. The world shifts rather suddenly. Dean flops down onto the bed, tilting the fleshlight up rather than parallel to the floor. Sam goes tumbling end over end until he’s on his back at one of the larger soft rings, and before he can say a singular word Dean’s cock is shoving forth again, smashing him into the silicon and pulsing hard, heavy, hot on top of him.

Dean groans, finds a sweet spot, a particularly good angle that he’s never found before in this thing. “Damn, baby, whatever that is, that’s amazing…”

He murmurs to himself, picking up the speed, deliberately jerking himself and angling his bundle of nerves unconsciously over Sam’s prone body. Precum oozes down his tip, soaks Sam’s front when he pulls out again, and soon he sets off at a speedy rhythm, fucking over Sam faster and harder.

“Dean- please don’t come- please don’t come on me-”

Dean goes faster, his gasps filling the air, his cock pulsing and throbbing over his brother. Sam can feel how close he is, he can feel through the pulsing and the twitching that Dean’s really enjoying himself. He can feel rolling throbs running through it, and he knows Dean’s chasing an orgasm no matter how loudly Sam begs him not to.

“I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come-”

“NO, PLEASE-”

“Mmm, yeah, I’m gonna- Tssss, fuck-”

He slams the fleshlight down, Sam stuck to the bottom of is cock head, and COMES in thick, pleasurable rolling throbs. Semen oozes from him and fills the floor of the thing, coating Sam in the process, nearly drowning him in it.

Dean doesn’t seem to notice or care. He continues, idly stroking it and Sam over his softening cock.

He leaves it on himself as he dozes.


	26. Wincest - Dean absently overstimulates Tiny!Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Can you write one where a normal sized Dean rubs tiny!Sam off and Sam is oversensitive?"

It’s torture. Sam’s been stuck in Dean’s pocket for _hours_ now, and it wouldn’t be so bad except Dean’s got no idea he’s in here and Dean’s a _fiddler._ He’s seen Dean fiddle with coins absently, fiddle with pencils, tap his fingers, fiddle with anything small that he can play with absentmindedly. This time, it just so happens to be Sam.

When he tumbled headfirst into Dean’s jacket pocket, he thought there were worse places to be. He quickly learned he was wrong when Dean’s hand shoved it’s way in, intruding on just about every inch of space, enormous fingertips absently searching around the pocket and landing on Sam. Without even a chance at escape, he’d been plucked up by digits that seemed to have a mind of their own, disembodied fingers that were obviously sent there for the express interest in torturing him, because that’s what they were doing.

They rolled him over, spun him around, poked and squeezed naked Sam until he felt battered and bruised, and after minutes that seemed like hours, they finally settled with him loosely in their grasp, his back pressed against a forefinger and middle finger, a thumb pushed up between his legs, the pad of the thumb spanning from his thigh to his chest.

Even though he was naked and essentially stradling his brother’s thumb, it was still better than the ruthless squeezing from a second ago. Or so he thought, until the thumb began to slide up and down absently. It was a slow, steady, regular pressure that just so happened to be right against Sam’s cock. 

It was the weirdest sensation Sam ever experienced, the flat, warm skin of his brother’s finger basically stimulating him even though it was barely moving a half an inch at most, and he could feel the ridges of Dean’s fingerprint, smooth and soft with natural oils and wear. 

The thing is, a man can only keep himself from acknowledging that kind of stimulation for so long, and against his will Sam started to get hard. No amount of kicking or flailing was strong enough to get himself out of the hold, there was no pushing back or forward to get away from the pressure, and soon Dean’s rubbing thumb got him hard and aching. Sam’s hands gripped the ridge of Dean’s fingernail, clinging tightly as his head fell back.

“Dean- Dean stop, Dean, you’re gonna- I’m gonna- Ffffuck-” He moaned, giving in finally to the unrelenting, tortorously slow rhythm that refused to speed up when he wanted it to. It was all he could do to thrust his hips against Dean’s thumb, that slow pace driving him step by step, little by little toward the finish line. He could feel himself just about to cross it, and the steady _updownupdownupdown_ of his brother’s manipulations finally, finally pushed him across it and he _came_ , pulsing into Dean’s thumb. _  
_

In the outside world, Dean was watching tv. It was some crap spanish soap opera that had his full attention, and if he’s being honest? He didn’t even realize he was playing with whatever was in his pocket. Considering it was a daytime tv movie marathon and he had fuck all else to do for the day, he had no plans to move or stop doing what he was doing any time soon, probably not for hours.

Right after Sam came, he realized his mistake. His cock was hypersensitive, still aching post-orgasm, tender to the touch, and still Dean’s rhythm didn’t falter. Sam groaned, struggle renewed, shoving and pushing in a desperate attempt to get Dean to stop rubbing his cock.

If he couldn’t get Dean to stop before, he certainly couldn’t do it now, and that steady _updownupdownupdown_ kept rubbing him, kept his legs apart, kept him _feeling_ it. Within ten minutes, Sam was hard again, and sweating. His muscles shook with the intense feeling rocketing through him, cock almost burning with sensation, groans of both pain and pleasure tearing their way out of his throat as Dean relentlessly rubbed.

He didn’t thrust this time, instead he did everything he could to postpone orgasm, but since he couldn’t get a hand down between the pad of Dean’s thumb and grip the base to keep himself steady. No amount of unsexy thinking, no amount of straining, no amount of groaning and panting and begging could free him from the torturous pleasure of the _updownupdownupdown_ rhythm, and soon he came again, sobbing out in pleasure and anguish.

And it didn’t stop. It was agony, too sensitive, too much, too soon, and he was getting raw. He managed to come twice more before the night was over, dick used and battered like it hadn’t been in ages, and only when Dean’s soaps were over did he take his hand out of his pocket, never the wiser.

[wincest](https://fandom-gt.tumblr.com/tagged/wincest) [macrophilia](https://fandom-gt.tumblr.com/tagged/macrophilia) [microphilia](https://fandom-gt.tumblr.com/tagged/microphilia) [nsfw](https://fandom-gt.tumblr.com/tagged/nsfw) [g/t](https://fandom-gt.tumblr.com/tagged/g%2Ft)


	27. Tiny!Sam accidentally winds up in Dean's pants in public, Unaware!Dean runs to the bathroom to jack off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t wanna talk about how he wound up in there. Dean will ask him later and he’ll staunchly refuse, because the truth is too embarrassing to even _think_ about — especially considering what happened after. 

He was trying to get his brother’s _attention_ , that’s all it was. When you’re trapped in the confines of a pair of boxer briefs beneath two swinging, bouncing balls there are only so many options at your disposal. As his brother walked the weight constantly slamming into him was frustrating, overwhelming, and no amount of pounding his fist against them seemed to work. They absorbed the impact like nothing, sucking his arm into wrinkled skin and jiggling him right along with them.

He really only had one other option, plan b, his last resort. It took some work to drag himself out from beneath the weight of testicles, struggling, squirming, tugging on hair and boxer briefs until he was wedged between the head of a soft dick and the fabric that rubbed against it. 

Hitting, grabbing, punching, squeezing. Anything and everything his little arms could do to try and get Dean to notice the damn feeling at the head of his soft cock. Anything to get _out_ , because staring face first into a soft slit wasn’t how he wanted to spend his day.

He sort of didn’t think it through. At two inches tall, no matter how much weight he put into it he barely felt like more than a fingertip, and aggressive grabbing really just felt like gentle stroking, teasing, tingling. He realizes his mistake, in hindsight.

Dean’s in a public place when it happens. He’s walking step after bowlegged step through a crowded mall when his dick starts twitching, going hard of it’s own volition like it hasn’t done since he was a _teenager_. It’s embarrassing as hell, and he’s got to discreetly reach down to readjust himself through his jeans so is dick is curving _up_ instead of sticking down the leg of his pants, rubbing him raw. He does so with one “casual” flit off to one side, a hand shooting down into his boxers, and a quick tug _up_ before anyone notices.

Calloused fingers go so fast he doesn’t even notice the lump he repositions with it. 

They invade Sam’s space and for a fleeing second he has _hope_. They grab him, but the problem is that isn’t _all_ they grab. Fingertips press him face first into the head of his brother’s cock, then shift, shake, drag until he’s upright and pinned roughly to the unforgiving denim of Dean’s jeans at his back by the sheer weight and force of an erection five times bigger than he is.

“Damn it–” 

That doesn’t even begin to cover it. Dean’s heartbeat has him twitching against Sam, an occasional _throb-throb_ that rams him breathlessly into the wall behind him. Sam struggles, shoving at the thing, trying to make room. Trying to drag himself _up_ the length of it, arms groping for purchase, scrambling at the head of his brother’s dick but too weak to get more than a couple centimeters of movement.

Dean’s horny as hell. He doesn’t know what it is, he doesn’t know _why_ , he just knows that in the span of a couple seconds he’s gone from six to midnight, full-on hard, and his dick just keeps _tingling_ like something’s stimulating it. He’s breathless as he walks, quick and jerking steps toward the nearest restroom, hand dipping to discreetly grind into his erection over his jeans. He’s got no idea he’s grinding _Sam_ into it, of course.

Sam feels more than sees the zipper go down, and he’s practically weeping for joy when boxers follow it. 

Shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up so soon.

Dean ran into the first open stall he could find, slammed it shut, closed the bolt, and shoved a hand down the front of his pants. Gripped himself hard around his cock, pressed his free hand against the tiled wall with the palm flat, angling himself and his dick over the toilet below.

And _jerked_ , working himself quick and hard and brutal, stifling the breathless gasps at the back of his throat.

What Sam sees is the curve of fingers at his back, the underside of Dean’s dick, the tiled wall, the toilet a mile below, and the whole scene suddenly _shaking_ as Dean’s hand rubs him into the underside of his dick over and over and _over_ again. There’s a moan that’s probably quiet to the rest of the world, but it isn’t to Sam.

Dean’s fucking _jerking off with him_ in a public restroom. He can hear the soft _mmmm_ in the back of Dean’s throat, he can feel the breath getting crushed out of him, the skin beneath the head of Dean’s dick a little pliant and a little loose so both it and he rub over the same bundle of nerves over and over again. Blood pulses when he hits one particular ridge of it, and Dean repeats the feeling faster, harder, _more_. Grinds Sam into his sweet spot so much, so often, so _hard_ that it’s dizzying and frantic, chaotic.

After only a minute or two of jerking himself, Dean’s dick gives one strong _leap_ against Sam and a bitten off moan follows it, and then his brother _comes_ over him, over his hand, and into the toilet a mile below him. He works himself through it, smearing Sam through slick semen, riding out his orgasm and the afterglow.

Just as quick, that free hand pushes up off the wall to grab for toilet paper, dabbing at the head of his dick, at Sam’s hair, at his own fist.

And then he tucks both himself and Sam back into his jeans. Drops the toilet paper into the toilet, flushes, and heads back into the mall.

So much for that plan.


	28. Tiny!Sam and Sleeping Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Could I prompt some Tiny!Sam and normal!Dean with Dean being asleep/unaware?"

It shouldn’t be that hard to wake his brother up, in theory. Standing next to his ear and yelling his name, even at an inch tall, ought to be enough to wake him. It’s not, though, and maybe Sam can blame the six or eight beers Dean had before falling asleep. Whatever the case may be, all it results in is a frustrated, enormous hand descending upon him and slapping down onto him like he’s a snooze button. Thank god the pillow’s soft, otherwise Dean would have inadvertently crushed him like a bug.

Squirming beneath his fingers was, evidently, an equally awful idea. Struggling to pull himself out from them only resulted in them curling around him and holding on tight, eradicating any hope for escape.

Minutes ticked by, then an hour, and from between the gaps of Dean’s knuckles he can see Dean’s lips part. A moan as loud as a train passes over Sam’s ears, and shortly thereafter the cage he’s in begins to move. It’s fast enough, far enough, that for a minute he feels vertigo. He can see Dean’s body beneath him, can hear the friction of clothes sliding against clothes, and Dean’s sleeping fingers disappear with Sam under the blankets.

And then, some place even darker.

They slide under the waistband of Dean’s boxers and wrap around his soft cock, his brother sandwiched in between it and the insides of his knuckles. He’s clean at least, overpoweringly smelling like soap, thick soft cock moulding against his tiny body even though it weighs what feels like a couple hundred pounds.

That’s how Dean sleeps for HOURS, fingers curled around himself, Sam pressed against his radiating heat. Every once and a while Dean’s cock twitches and grows, just a little, just an inch. Half hard on top of him, Sam’s terrified to move in case he makes things worse. Every once and a while Dean’s fingers twitch too, like he’s gripping himself a little more tightly, like he’s dreaming of touching himself.


	29. Tiny!Sam gets stuck in Dean's balls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "love your work! so i have a weird one, tiny!sam somehow manages to get stuck in deans dick and ends up in his ball's, with his balls aching, dean thinks of only one thing to solve the prob. you can guess. all unaware please. thank you so much"

Sam doesn’t know how he managed to survive. Getting caught in his brother’s slit had been a nightmare, especially when his thrashing and struggle to get out ended stimulating Dean’s cock into action, and he’d probably have been pushed out again when his brother came except that Dean kept running his thumb over the head of his cock any time Sam started to make it out, almost like he _felt_ it, though there’s no way Dean knew he was there. 

He was still inside when Dean finished, half way down as Dean’s dick softened, and the deflating pressure and hardness relaxed the fleshy tube around him. Loosened them, still slick and slippery, and as Dean absently held his cock upright, there was only one direction for Sam to go. 

Down.

In his post orgasm bliss, Dean drifted off into a light and easy slumber, completely unaware of what his body was putting his brother through and unable to help him. 

Deep inside Dean’s dick, Sam’s struggle was fruitless. The relaxing muscles, the downward force, the gentle suctioning throb inside his groin lead Sam to a fleshy wall that he struggled to grip for purchase. It was the wrong choice to make, because it flapped open to a sharp drop into Dean’s sagging, relaxed balls.

The sensation was startling, a deep and indescribably pleasurable pressure not unlike the unfurling of lust Dean gets when watching porn, and it hits him in his sleep, making him shift and groan, hips pumping into the air a little. His dreams take a turn for the pleasant, but Sam’s nightmare heads in the opposite direction. As Dean shifts, the world around him shakes like an earthquake, sending him slamming into the round wall before him. 

Dean’s balls constrict in response, pulling in tight as his cock hardens abruptly, the ache- not unpleasant, but like the world’s most abrupt and intense case of blue balls, tug Dean gently from sleep, and he doesn’t bother opening his eyes as a hand slides down toward his cock. He rubs it absently, sleepily, lips parting as he tries to keep hold of the dream he’d been in. 

As his testicles tighten, the room around Sam dissipates, closing in and surrounding him with intense heat. He’s got to get out of here, that’s his only chance at surviving, he knows it. The problem is, as soon as he gets his footing again, the world starts to go haywire.

Dean’s balls are really stealing the show right now. He abandons the soft fondling of his cock to instead drift his hand lower, cupping and massaging his aching testicles. It just feels so fucking _good,_ and his fingers massage the flesh of them, squeezing gently, rolling them around in his hand.

In his prison, Dean’s testicles sag again, this time not granting him more room but rather filling with semen, pre-precum, and Sam knows he’s got to get out right the _fuck now._ He scrambles his way toward the fleshy wall he’d fallen through in the first place, hands gripping and slipping where sperm slowly oozes.

Dean moves on from his balls, lifts his hand to loosly grip his cock, and he starts to jerk. Sam’s world is shaken up and down with regularity as Dean’s balls bounce, walls pulsing a gentle rhythm, and he struggles with all his strength to shove an arm through.

Dean _moans,_ grip tightening, because whatever the _fuck_ is going on down there is probably one of the best things he’s ever felt. His free hand shoots down to his testacles again, massaging them, the right one practically _singing, vibrating,_ hell, something, he doesn’t know, but he squeezes them as he works his cock and his mind goes blank, pelvis thrusting into his own hand as he feels the pressure build. He wants- jesus- fuck-

Sam’s soaked, struggling, desperate for his life, and with the last of his power, he _shoves_ the wall open. 

Dean’s orgasm is sudden and unexpected, it’s fucking _intense,_ he can feel it deep inside his pelvis like he never really has before, toes curling, testicles tightening and squeezing deep into himself, and the term _busting a nut_ probably doesn’t even adequately cover just exactly how hard he comes. Sam, tiny insignificant Sam, gets trapped in that open wall for a second as it shutters, as pressure builds inside Dean’s sac, prolonging his orgasm with his violent struggles, until the pressure builds up to a little too much and, like a gun, he’s shot outward.

Dean moans _again,_ hips stuttering, hand picking up the pace to frantic again, because- fuck- is that- _twice_? Did he just come _twice_ in the span of a minute? Who gives a flying god damn, because it feels _amazing_ , and his head flops back onto his pillow.

Sam, rewarded for his efforts, passes through Dean’s shaft and is sent tumbling out with a thick glob of semen, oozing down the head of his dick and finally settles, panting and exhausted, on the sagging, wrinkled skin of Dean’s exhausted balls. 


	30. Tiny!Dean trapped in Jo's underwear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Omg a tiny dean x jo would be amazing!especially from the lil blurb you wrote"

The thing is, Dean’s always loved eating pussy. It’s just that he’s not normally so up close and personal when he does it. It was a sort of natural instinct to head for the satin panties on his floor, but he never expected Jo to step into them and pull them up, up, up between her towering legs, sealing Dean against her like some kind of panty pet. And there he is, cupped against her slowly wetting lips by unforgiving jeans, face mashed against a clit, legs stuck inside her entrance. It flexes absently, tightening down on them and loosening like her pussy’s actively searching for something to grind inside of itself, and every once and a while a hand comes down to knead at him like she’s horny but she doesn’t have time to address it just yet.

He hopes she figures it out soon, because her pussy’s been slowly pulling him in and no amount of flailing seems to help him stay out for long. In fact, pushing against her clit or pulling himself out only makes the flexing muscle spasms stronger.

* * *

It’s been hours, it feels like, since Dean’s been trapped inside Jo’s underwear. She seems to go from walking to sitting - and that’s particularly rough, the way it pulls the fabric taught against her and melds him into her folds. He’s been pressed up against her labia so tight he almost couldn’t breath, and no amount of squirming seemed to get her attention.   
  


Until now, perhaps. Above his head a sudden light explodes, and in the several-foot gap he can see forming between the waistband of her panties and the top of her pelvis, three slim, enormous fingers appear like slow motion. Perfectly manicured nails begin to encompass the added space, and they seem to head right for him. 

“Thank fucking god,” is all he things when the tip of the middle one touches him. But she isn’t pulling him out, no, it seems she’s just palming herself and accidentally shoving him a little further down so that his stomach’s over her hungry entrance. Her fingers slide up again, but they don’t leave. From his position beneath her open pussy he can see her middle digit find her clit and begin to circle it, slow and easy rhythms.

“Jo…” He starts, a desperate plea, a warning. As though she hears him (but she doesn’t) her finger begins to work faster, and an enormous feminine moan reverberates all around him. “Jo… Jo, don’t you come on me- Jo, I’m down here, Jo- please-”

Soaking wetness cascades down from above him. It plasters his clothes to his stomach, plasters HIM to her underwear, and it’s only just the beginning. She’s going to come on him, the realization, the resignation, it hits all at once as her finger flies up and down enormous clit. Above him, her vaginal entrance clenches and unclenches with rolling pleasure. 

And then she does, spilling hot and wet into her panties, thick and almost drowning him in the process.

With a sigh, her finger retreats and her waistband snaps back into place. She doesn’t change, she doesn’t take them off, she just leaves him trapped there in her soaked panties.


	31. Tiny!Sam winds up in Dean's pocket while Dean jerks off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably a really awful prompt, and it's kinda more of a request, but I have one for an unaware Shrunken!Sam/Normal!Dean fic: Sam's shrunken to an inch tall without Dean having any idea, and Sam decides his best course of action is to climb Dean and reach his ear. I have a really big kink for leather jackets (especially with Jensen) and pockets, so I'd love it if Sam has to climb up Dean's leather jacket and ends up getting trapped in his pocket. (cont. in next message)
> 
> "While Sam's in his pocket, Dean is doing something sexual; masturbating, out at a strip club, etc. How it all ends doesn't really matter. Like I said, this is more of a direct request than a prompt, and I'm REALLY sorry if you don't do those or these messages seem really rude. I can't write, and I'd love to read one story that caters to that prompt because it's a Macro!Wincest fantasy of mine. I love your writing so I thought maybe you'd be up for it? If you're not, no harm done!!"

Since your prompt was broken up into two questions, I thought I’d break my response up into two parts too! 

…It’s much longer than I intended woops. I don’t know much about catering to pocket or leather fetishes, but I did my best!

**Part 1**

“ _ **God damn it, Sammy…**_ ” The words echo over Sam’s head like a dream, pounding through his skull and pulling him through his slumber in a heartbeat. His eyes blink open blearily, but the world is fuzzy and before he can clear it, an enormous _slam_ shakes himself and the ground beneath his feet. He’s on them in a second, through himself up and feeling for the gun in his waistband, hunter’s reflexes forcing him into action. 

There is no gun to be found, though, and despite flicking his eyes over several feet of the room around him, he can’t seem to pin down where he is. It’s bizarrely familiar, the texture of this floor. Soft but sturdy and unyielding, like laminate or…

His eyes fall on a crater in the floor, and that’s when he knows. The ground gives way to a smudge of yellow, of the guts and gore in the seat of a car. The crater is perfectly circle, fringed and black at the edges. He knows it because he’s stared at it almost every day for his entire life.

It’s the cigarette burn Dean put in the seat when he was nineteen. Now, though, it’s over half as wide as he is tall. The floor makes sense. It’s leather, stretching out in any direction for miles and miles, which means the voice, the slam from earlier…

His eyes track up, up, up, what had looked at first to be a wall. No. Definitely, definitely not a wall. It’s his _brother_ , settled there in the driver’s seat. He’s huge, surreal, larger than life, so big Sam’s vision can’t comprehend all of him at once. It goes blurry at the edges like a mountain, like looking up toward the top of a skyscraper. 

His face is partially obscured by a thick, leather-covered shoulder, but even so, Sam can see that he’s disgruntled. Sam’s got no idea how long he’s been like this, no recollection of _how_ he got here, but he can tell he must’ve been gone at least throughout the night if Dean’s this worried. 

On the bright side, at least he’s _right there_. It’s going to be really difficult to get lost or hurt in the _Impala_ of all places, and maybe they can figure this out together.

“Dean!” Sam yells up at the face of his brother. Dean doesn’t twitch. Sam cups his hands over his mouth and _really bellows it_ this time, voice ripping from his throat and tearing from his lungs. “ _Dean!!_ ”

Nothing. 

Crap.

He’s too small to be heard. Based on the proportions, based on that cigarette burn, he’s got to figure he’s maybe a little less than an inch tall. 

…Jesus.

Alright, Sam, breathe. He can figure this out. He just has to think about it for a second.

The car swerves, a turn taken much too quickly to be road safe (which he would kindly remind Dean if his brother could _hear_ him), and Sam looses his footing. The forces send him tumbling left like a piece of candy in the floorboard, rolling and rolling until he rams into Dean’s thigh with a _thump_. He tears his eyes up from the flat of his back, staring up past his brother’s massive chest, his massive biceps, his chin at an angle, but even so Sam can tell that he’s made literally no impact. The thickness of Dean’s jeans make any movement on his part almost impossible to feel.

To experiment with this theory, Sam bangs his fist on the denim before him. Evidently that accomplishes _something_ , because Dean shifts his leg to the right. Shifts it too fast, too large for Sam to stop, and he’s flattened beneath the massive thigh. The weight is crushing, but it doesn’t stop there. Dean shifts his leg back and forth an inch or two, rubbing Sam into the leather seat below. It presses down beneath him _just a little_ , just enough to keep him from getting obliterated, but not enough to really cushion his weight. 

After a moment, it stops and Dean shifts his leg away again.

Sam lays there winded, chest heaving, eyes pinpricking with blackness. He’d nearly passed out under the crushing weight of what must have been Dean barely scratching an itch, barely _moving_ those enormous muscles, barely twitching.

Yeah, no, he is _so_ not trying that again.

Okay, Sam, focus. He’s got maybe another ten minutes to figure something out- _if that_. He’s not sure where they’re going, but he does know Dean won’t take that long to get there. Especially not if he thinks Sam is missing. He’s got to get Dean to _hear_ him, somehow. 

Which means he’s got to get closer to Dean’s ear.

He stares up the enormous height of Dean’s torso, and sighs. And maybe, just maybe he finally understands all that complaining about him being _too tall_. The tables sure have turned, haven’t they, Dean?

With a breath, he gets to work. Avoids the itching denim, and opts instead to stride up the bit of leather jacket that’s splayed out beside Dean on the seat. It’s an easy starting ramp, and he can spy decades worth of wrinkles, rips, and tears that he can use as handholds and footholds. 

He starts to climb. 

His breath heaves, his muscles are sore, and he’s got to say it’s a really good thing this lifestyle’s prepared him for some hard work, because he’s winded and he’s not even half way. A glance down shows Dean’s lap, legs sprawled apart, disappearing miles away under the dashboard. A glance up gives him an angled view of Dean’s face, the place under his chin, an Adam’s apple bigger than Sam is tall. 

Almost there. 

The leather around him creaks, and his hands tighten.

“No, Dean, no, no, no-“ The car shuts off despite his protests, and suddenly, the world is moving. Dean’s body is everywhere around him, shifting through the air, leaning and rocking and slamming the door. The motion turns rhythmic, the ride, thud, ride, thud, ride, thud of walking. With every thud, every fallen footstep, the world jerks a little, dislodging him from his place. The final straw is when Dean brings his hands up, the size of a school bus, and shoves them down into his pocket. It jerks the entire coat with him, and Sam loses his grasp.

He falls. 

He tumbles down, down, down until his back hits something hard, and then he’s rolling at an angle down a steep hill, shrouded suddenly in the dark, somewhere warm and black and on top of something soft.

He blinks, hands pressing down onto the ground below him.

It’s skin.

He’s in Dean’s pocket, sitting on what must be the back of his curled fist. Thank god he’s even alive, it’s sheer luck he managed to survive that fall and he knows it. What’s more, with Dean’s hand in here, he’s presented with a new opportunity to get the man’s attention. He moves, shifts, pushes himself off of the back of Dean’s hand and deeper into the pocket, down off to the side of his thumb. With both hands, he grasps the digit. Pulls it, shakes it, prods it to get Dean’s attention. At first nothing happens, but soon Dean’s hand shifts, thumb pulling away from Sam’s attention and fingers seeking him out in the dark. 

They press with no gentleness, press him deep and hard into the worn leather, move over his entire body as Dean absently feels him out, probably subconsciously trying to figure out what’s in his pocket without actually taking it out. Overhead, he can hear the muffled sound of voices, lower in pitch than they ought to be like a slowed recording. It’s Dean’s voice, he can tell by the pauses and dips, but it doesn’t falter even as his fingers turn bruising. He’s talking to someone, and not sparing Sam or the thing in his pocket a second thought.

He’s pried up from the floor of Dean’s pocket and squished between his forefinger and thumb. They move in circles around him, dislodging his clothes, shoving his shirt up, nearly gagging him with it. The rhythm never stops, skin rubbing the expanse of his stomach, of his back, turning and flipping him over and rubbing his head, his ass, his feet, everywhere. To Dean, he’s a found penny, an absent coin that can be fiddled with and flicked and tapped.

It’s grueling. At some point, his shirt is forced over his head. His skin starts to turn raw from the kneading and gripping, his cock pressed and nudged against his belly, and it seems to go on for hours. Never again will he underestimate Dean’s ability to _absently fiddle_ , because it _just doesn’t stop_.

Until it does. 

The hand disappears. Sam’s left lying there, wilted and bruised, panting and heaving and half-broken as Dean’s pocket slowly closes, light blocked out as the fabric shuts, no longer obstructed and opened by Dean’s hand. Distantly, he can hear the hum of the Impala start again, but for now, he simply lays there.

This is gonna be harder than he thought.

Sam falls asleep. Between the climb, the manhandling, the dark, the warmth, and the hum of the Impala, he can’t help but go out like a light. He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he wakes up again, but it’s with the stark knowledge of what’s happened and where he is. He doesn’t hear the rumble of an engine anymore, but there _does_ seem to me movement. It’s a weird sensation, a sort of twitching that comes from higher up in the jacket, like he’s being shaken. 

He fumbles to his feet in the dark, hands gripping the fabric to keep himself steady, listening.

The sounds are distorted, louder and lower than usual, echoing like a cave, but one is pretty much impossible not to distinguish. It’s the high pitched sound of a woman moaning, biting out a gasp. There’s a rhythmic, slick slapping sound somewhere much closer, and Sam bleats incredulously.

“Seriously? _Seriously?_ I go missing and you’re having _sex?_ That’s great, Dean, that’s…” He stops, tilts his head, thinks back to the soulless incident with the aliens and the hippy. “…Well, that’s karma I guess, _but still!_ ”

Dean, of course, has no response to this. 

The world shifts.

Dean’s tried calling Sam half a hundred god damn times. He’s gone to all the places they visited last night, gone to every damn bar, library, and vegan marketplace in a twenty mile radius. He’s got to have a serious talk about leaving stupid notes to go out and do stupid witch hunts on his own, because that shit just isn’t flying. For all he knows, Sam is dead in a ditch somewhere. Truth is, he’s probably fine, but he could at least take the time to call Dean back.

The tension was freaking killing him, and their motel room got free HBO. It wasn’t hard to figure out a decent way to pass some time waiting for his asshole brother to check in. 

So he shifted, unfastened his jeans, and began to play with himself through the denim. Soft core cable porn never hurt anyone, after all, and a little self love was exactly what he needed to take his mind off of his renegade solo brother. It didn’t take him long to get into it; the leading lady had dark hair and gorgeous eyes, and Dean shifted to take his cock out properly, leather jacket pulling taut with the strain and restrictive movement.

He didn’t bother to stop and take it off, though. He had a really good rhythm going- christ, it’s been too long since he’s gotten any. His knees spread further apart, he slumps down nice and low on the couch, and _goes to town_ on his swollen cock.

Back in Dean’s pocket, the shaking intensifies. Sam’s thrown backward into the back corner of the pocket for a minute, and it takes him a second to get his bearings. He’s got to get out of here. Maybe give his brother a freaking lecture on what you should and shouldn’t do in a jacket that everybody has to see you wear _all the time_. 

He starts to climb, fingers gripping fabric, until the slit of light looms above him. It’s shifting, opening and closing an inch or two with the rhythmic tapping that comes with Dean’s masturbating. His arms throw over the top and he hauls himself up, hesitating there with what leverage he has to look around.

They’re back in the motel. The jacket’s fanned over Dean’s hips, and he gets now why the tapping was so strong. He wasn’t more than six inches from Dean’s pelvis. A glance over has him freezing, eyes wide, at the sight of it. Dean’s cock is a monolith, six or seven times taller than him and four or so times wider, real-time HD _hard_ , jutting up from neatly trimmed pubic hair and cut, defined hips. His sac lay heavy beneath it, round mounds each larger than him as well. They bounce a little with the motion of Dean’s hand, which he can’t help but watch. It’s _huge_ , and his eyes track it as it slides down, down, down the jutting member, then back up up up it again. It’s slick, wet with semen and maybe saliva, shining. It focuses on the round, leaking head, rubbing a circle as it grips the sensitive spot underneath it, then drops back down again in a well-practiced motion.

When he finally tears his eyes away, it’s to glance up Dean’s chest at his face. He’s staring, not at the porn on the television, but at his own dick. Biting his lip as he watches his own hand trace over it, a low moan rumbling through the back of his throat and filling his ears.

If Sam can just get into his line of sight, there’d be no missing him. He’s not _that small,_ it’s hard not to see something nearly an inch tall sprinting toward your dick after all. It’s not that he wants to get up close and personal with what’s going on, it’s just that Dean’s staring down at his own crotch like some kind of goddamn creeper and it’s Sam’s _only choice_. 

He shoves himself forward, tumbling down the slick leather of Dean’s jacket and onto the exposed skin of his upper thigh. Dean at some point shifted his jeans down several inches, so where there should have been denim, there was pale skin and sparse hair. Sam gets his bearings and _runs_ , clearing inches of shaking, jiggling, bouncing thigh toward the flat plane of Dean’s gently inclining pelvis.

A sharp moan makes him stop. It bursts from his brother’s throat low and whiny, and he tears his eyes up to look at Dean’s face. God _damn_ it. His eyes are closed, head slowly throwing itself back as he works himself harder, the ground shaking roughly beneath Sam’s feet. He can’t _see_ Sam, not like that, and it’s all Sam can do to keep going on the hope that Dean will look down again when his wave of pleasure passes. He moves through the cropped hair at Dean’s cock, moves toward the line where pelvis meets stomach, moves away from the leaking head Dean’s rigorously rubbing behind him, and tries not to look.

Something breaks through the room, some sound, high pitched and sharp, jerking them both in their startlement. It takes Sam a second longer than Dean to realize what it is- it’s the sound of a phone ringing.

“God damn it,” Dean mutters, and that’s all the warning Sam gets before the world shifts again. Before he can move, before he can _run_ , before he even realizes what’s happening, Dean’s hand is off his cock and tugging his underwear back up.

Right over top of Sam.

He’s tumbling down and back, falling against Dean’s pelvis right before the sticky head of his cock slaps down, pinned by rucked underwear and shaken as Dean bounces to get all of himself back inside, bounces his hips and his cock sways, smearing come against Sam’s face and chest, the waistband of his underwear snapping closed and heavy denim following it. Sam yells, squirms, struggles to get away from the bearing cock and it’s determined attempt to rub against him as Dean rises to his feet. He shakes again and it dips, slips beneath his legs, shoves itself up behind his back and squashes him between the underside and unforgiving cotton. 

Dean had been so fucking close, he’d been _right goddamn there_ when the phone rang, but he couldn’t ignore it. Not with with Sam gone like this. He managed to hobble as best he could, still breathless, to where his phone lay against the table, still throbbing in his jeans, only to glance down at the fucking thing and see it was a telemarketer.

“God damn tele- _oh fuck!_ ” Evidently his cock didn’t get the memo, because it was still tingling, still pulsing and throbbing like there was a god damn vibrator in his jeans. Of course, he had no way of knowing that it was actually _Sam_ , struggling and squirming against the most sensitive place under the head of Dean’s cock, pushing and writhing to get away from the persistent throbbing and rolling he was being subjected to. If he would’ve kept still, maybe it would have subsided, but as it stands, his movement only managed to tip Dean over the edge headfirst into orgasm. 

Dean’s hand shot down to grip himself tightly, to rub and massage himself through his jeans as he _came_ in his god damn pants, head thrown back, a moan on his lips, fingers prodding and poking at that sensitive and tingling place, spilling seed like he was busting a fucking nut or something, riding wave after wave of it until it puttered out, flaccid and numb.

“Holy jesus-“ he muttered, hand dropping away, head bowing over the table as he breathed. Eyes opened slowly as he took in the mess in his jeans, so wet a damp patch seeped through the denim, and he groaned softly. Yeah, no, he was so going to have to wash those before Sam came back.

First thing’s first, though- he needs a god damn shower.


	32. Dean trapped in Sam's shorts during a workout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about Dean being trapped in Sam's shorts for a workout? At a motel or a gym. Stretches and squats and sweat, oh my~

To be fair, Dean bought him that stupid atheletic cup as a _joke_. It was all the stupid jogging he did, and Dean thought it would be _funny_. You know, something to launch at his head when he’s pissed or something. Turns out, the joke’s on _him_ , though, Dean winds up in it just as Sam’s tugging it up the skyscraper length of his legs. His cry of protest goes unheard as his brother’s balls settle over his chest, waist, and legs. He squirms, struggles, but there’s really no moving- the cup does as advertised, and Sam’s junk remains firm. Dean can only be glad that his flaccid dick is a solid inch away from Dean’s face, or he’d be _seriously pissed_ , probably literally.

He might have been anyway, if he thought it through. A cup can only mean one thing. Sam puts his earbuds in, and begins to jog.

Above Dean, flesh begins to heave. _THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD-_ there’s no getting away from the pounding weight lifting and falling onto him, jarring him right and then left beneath Sam’s sagging, hairy balls. If he could just get an _arm_ out, maybe, maybe he could get into some kind of position, but he’s held firm as the temperature begins to rise.

The jogging lasts for what must be an hour, and Sam has long since started to sweat. The musty scent is almost as overpowering as the crushing weight above him, but the slickness does provide _one_ benefit. Through sheer willpower, Dean manages to work an arm out from beneath the hanging weight and starts to shove himself forcefully upward.

That’s when the running stops. Dean’s right to be suspicious of it, because suddenly it’s not just a pressing weight pushing down on him, but a _crushing_ one. Sam settles himself down on the grass and juts a leg out. As his massive body slowly rolls forward, so does his groin. His nuts follow suit, and they _roll_ a sparse two inches forward, just enough to cover the rest of Dean’s body and head. 

Sam holds position, slowly suffocating Dean beneath his crotch as he stretches. After a long, long ten count, he slowly, slowly rolls back and Dean gasps for breath.

Sam switches legs. Rolls, rolls, rolls slowly forward and his nuts follow suit, roll, roll, roll over Dean’s top half and _sit_ there, heavy and unmoving. Roll, roll, roll slowly back and Dean gasps for breath again, struggling with renewed vigor.

Sam absently reaches down and rubs at his jock. Dean’s smushed between his balls, overheated and coated with sweat. He flounders, stills, and the rubbing finally stops. He groans weakly, eeks himself backward until his chest is free from the pinning weight.

Today is the day of mistakes, evidently, because that’s when Sam begins to do squats. As he drops, that cock that was a safe inch from his face nudges downward, slams into it with unrelenting force and _rubs_ clean over it, slit sliding along his nose and mouth. Sam rises, and the rubbing relents. He lowers, breathing out, and it resumes. Dean splutters, shoving at it, struggling to keep sweat from his mouth, pushing the intrusive head from his face.

Sam, for his part, is _really enjoying_ his work out. It’s doing wonders for his libido, it must be the adrenaline that’s getting him all worked up, it _has_ to be, because his cock is practically tingling with every squat he manages. He resolves to keep going for as much as his body can handle, because it’s _really_ doing him some good. He rolls his pelvis forward, nudges into the pleasing pressure of his athletic cup, and resolves to reward himself with some _alone time_ whenever he decides to call it a day. Maybe in a couple hours.


	33. Bucky and Sam get accidentally caught in an Unaware Steve's jack session

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey this is the anon that ask this prompt. "Maybe you can write about Steve masturbating with Sam and Bucky shrunken and getting caught up in it?" I meant it as Steve is unaware of them and they're accidentally at the wrong place at the wrong time trying to get his attention. Sorry, English is not my first language.

They’re on his bed - and don’t ask how long it took for them to get there, because the answer is frankly embarrassing. Sam keeps complaining about his arms being too tired to climb anymore, and Bucky can’t really blame him. If it weren’t for his metal arm and the serum, he’d have probably dropped about half way through ascending the blanket. 

They make it, though, is all that matters - standing on top of a mattress staring out at the world at ½ inch tall is an alien and unsettling experience. Everything is magnified, all sensations are greater, and it means that their entire bodies feel the tremor of the bed when Steve’s footsteps become audible. It’s a tiny little earthquake, a gentle shaking of their feet the closer Steve comes until he’s in the room proper, so large the two of them can only really stop and stare for a long minute.

Sam snaps out of it first, arms waving over his head, calling out, “HEY, HEY, DOWN HERE–”

The skyscraper that is Steve does not acknowledge him. He moves around the room taking his boots off, shedding clothes layer by layer, sighing so loud it sounds like the wind. It’s clear Steve doesn’t hear them when even his boxers come off, and his massive naked body looms over them without thought nor care. 

Bucky’s speechless. Sam’s determined. He’s jumping up and down, screaming so loud his voice tears his throat, and when Steve turns toward the bed finally Bucky can’t help one optimistic second thinking _holy shit, he did it, Steve heard him_.

But he didn’t. He crosses toward them, but he turns around at the last second and it isn’t hand nor face soaring toward them, but perfect round ass. He yells _run_ , but Sam’s frozen in disbelief and horror. He’s too late.

Steve’s ass hits the bed with such monumental force that Bucky goes flying forward toward the edge, rolling end over end and just barely stopping before the steep drop down. On either side of him is the inner portion of Steve’s thigh, and directly ahead between them, a pair of hefty balls. He can just make out Sam’s form underneath them, pinned up to the neck by the left nut and struggling to breathe. 

Above him, a massive hand glides down and curls around the cock that had been settled upon them, gently lifting it - and entirely accidentally, slightly lifting the sack that’s pinning Sam down.

Barnes bolts for him, clearing those minimal feet of distance to grope around beneath Steve’s folds to try and find an arm. Steve hums above them, and his eyes tear away from Sam to look straight up.

There is no face, nor chest, nor ceiling. There is only one thing completely obstructing all view, unavoidable and impossible to ignore.

All flesh tones make their sky. The ball trapping Sam leads up to the underside of a dick, which curves out overhead and is fondled gently by a hand - the backs of the knuckles and, occasionally, the tips of fingers are all of it Bucky can make out. He sees in vivid detail the way they carefully manipulate soft flesh, the way they imprint a little into the skin, and the way the cock they’re holding begins to stiffen just a little at their ministrations. 

“Oh, Christ. We gotta get the hell outta here…” He manages, then ducks down to redouble his efforts at pulling Sam out. He gets one arm free, but wrapping both his hands around it and pulling just results in Sam yelling out in pain.

“You’re gonna pull my arm out of socket- they’re too heavy- I can’t- you just gotta get his attention before he smothers me down here, man–”

And how in the hell is he supposed to do that? He peels back, looking left then right. Either side framing him is just smooth, hairless inner thigh. Trying to climb them would be fruitless and time consuming. His eyes land on Steve’s testicles again, the easy hand and footholds they’ll make, and he sighs to himself.

Only one thing for it. 

He takes a running go, an throws himself as high as he can reach. Face first into sagging sack, hands gripping on, he begins his ascent. 

Steve feels a pleasant sort of tingling, and his cock fills out a little more quickly, a pleased breath escaping his nose as he continues to gently touch himself - not stroking, not jerking yet, just teasing. Fingertips pressing into the underside, thumb coasting over his head, coaxing himself to hard. He rolls his hips forward a little, because he’s always enjoyed gently massaging them on the bed beneath him as he does it. 

Sam is engulfed for long, long seconds until his hips roll back that subtle inch, and he sucks down air. Bucky’s forced to cling more tightly, hanging on for dear life lest he wind up in the same place as Sam - squirming fruitlessly underneath them.

Something feels nicer about that now than it has before, and so Steve does it again, relishing in the soft lick of heat up his spine and into his dick which quickly pumps up to half hard. His hand dips down to absently massage his balls and, by complete accident, catch Bucky in the curve of his finger at the top knuckle joint.

He’s plucked away by the bent muscle as though his grip means nothing, and he finds himself soaring upward again until he’s slammed face-first into a wall of flesh. It’s soft as velvet on the outside, but that’s draped over something that has about as much give as a god damn rock. Steve flexes his fingers, then begins the first soft semblance of gently stroking - sliding loosely up and down smooth, dry skin - and carrying Bucky along with it.

There’s no god damn way in hell Bucky’s gonna stay where he is for this rodeo, the way those fingers are bound to go tight and start flying will crush him sure as anything. He’s gotta find an opportunity to escape them, and not wind up exactly back where he’d been at the start.

It’s not easy. It takes nearly a full minute before he manages to pull himself out from between Steve’s cock and finger, scaling the back of Steve’s index finger when it reaches its peak near the crown of Steve’s head. As soon as he’s in range, he throws himself forward onto it. 

It ain’t easy - the whole thing is swaying and moving with the rhythm of Steve’s loose jacking, and he’s got to cling on tight just to the left of a leaking slit or else risk being thrown off.

Steve hums another soft _mm_ sound as the nerves on the sensitive head of his dick zing with a subtle pleasant feeling. 

Bucky does his best to find his footing, to try and stand, because surely to god Steve’s bound to look down at his own dick at some point and _notice_ something on it, and a quick calculation tells him there’s no fucking way he’s going to be able to climb a 90 degree angle up Steve’s flat, hairless abs. 

He needs to be seen, he’s _got to be_ , and the only way he can think to do that is by slamming his fists down on the flesh beneath him.

It illicits another quick, surprised exhale of pleasure from the titan above him, but it doesn’t earn his eyes. It earns, instead, his _thumb_ , which appears from almost nowhere and _slams_ its pad down onto Bucky, crushing him flat against it and soaking him in precum as Steve gently circles his head, stimulating himself - he’s not normally all that interested in the tip, but something about the nerves there feel especially good right now.

He thumbs over his slit back and forth, and his breath goes short at the tingling sensation it feels.

Needless to say, when being pushed against an open hole by an unrelenting force, there’s only one place Bucky’s going to end up - stuck chest deep and clinging to the edge to stay afloat.

Fortunately, the thumb disappears - though Steve’s surprised and pleased that the sensation doesn’t.

He’s hard as hell, rolling his balls gently back and forth, grinding his hips onto the mattress beneath him. Gripping his dick and jerking faster, a breathless urgency taking hold, accidentally squeezing Bucky on every upstroke as the pressure makes his slit close up and then reopen again on the down-stroke.

The rippling of flesh and sudden jerking _thud_ all around him tell him Steve’s close, as though his quick and panting breath weren’t enough. His chanting begging of, “Please don’t come, please don’t come- please don’t come, Steve, god, please don’t-” almost feels like it makes Steve jerk faster, harder, _more_ , until with a breathless moan he _finishes_ , balls tugging up tight and both his load and Bucky shot out onto his own stomach, coating his friend in gallons and gallons of inescapable semen.


	34. Meg inserts Tiny!Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've only seen like nine episodes of supernatural, so I'm mostly only familiar with the characters via fanfiction and don't know much about Jo or Meg... but could you write something where one of them has a Winchester bro stuck allll the way inside? -- bitty

“Aw, but you’re so _cute_ like this,” Meg teases in her sardonic sing-song, impossible to tell if she’s being sarcastic or genuine - either way she’s enjoying it. “Itty bitty little dolly, used to be a hunter. Not so scary are you now, huh, Dean?”

She’s got him in one hand, his body curled up in her fist from the chest down so that only his arms stick out. They shove at her thumb in unfathomable frustration, and though her skin gently dips under the pressure it doesn’t so much as shift her grip. In fact, she squeezes a little bit tighter just on principal. 

The world beneath him thuds rhythmically, jostling him in regular tattoo as she walks through the motel hallway toward the room he’d been staying.

“Meg,” He warns, voice low and dangerous. “If you don’t put me down right the hell now, I’m gonna stab your ass back to the fourth layer.”

She pulls an _awww_ face, and leans forward to just smoosh her lips against his face in a kiss. He splutters, pushes at her plush lower lip, but she doesn’t seem to care. When she pulls back, he hears a door slam shut almost deafeningly. “You might wanna watch it, kid. At your size I might just eat you up.”

And when she grins, it’s with a flash of teeth larger than dinner plates - and the realization that she actually _could_ swallow him whole. She seems to read the expression on his face, because she rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, squirt, that’s not the kind of vore I’m into. I got something _else_ in mind for you.”

It’s not the bed but the bathroom she takes them to, flipping on a blinding incandescent light and setting him carelessly down onto the counter before the sink. From here at her waistline, he legitimately falls backward on his ass trying to crane his neck up her body. She relishes the sight of it, straightening her spine and stepping right up against it so that the underside of her breasts block his view of her face.

“Hey now, my eyes are up here,” she says, and he can’t even see where _up here_ is. “But that’s okay, you got the right idea. We’re gonna play for a little while, have a real _good_ time.” 

Before him sweeps in two massive hands again, and he crawls backward for a second before realizing what they’re going for - the button of her jeans, which is about at eye-level with him when he stands up on the counter. The front of her zipper and the fly of her pants encompass his entire vision, and when she begins to drag the zipper down that metal-on-metal grinding is more audible than he’s used to.

“Oh, _hell_ no, I don’t like big girls-” He warns, hands coming up, body stepping back. 

She shimmies her hips a little, and massive denim shifts down three or four inches to reveal a snug black pair of cotton panties that outline her public mound.

“Funny, you body shaming me at _your_ size,” She retorts, and before he can say a word her hand sweeps in behind him to push him forward, face and chest smashed into gentle cotton. They smell like absolutely nothing somehow, and if he had to place his bets it’d be that she uses mojo to keep her vessel and her clothes clean the same way Castiel and Crowley do. “When’s the last time you pleased a woman anyway, let’s be honest. You make some pretty eye candy for a one-night-stand, but if you were any good in the sack you’d have a few more second dates, wouldn’t you, Dean? It’s always the pretty ones who think they don’t have to work for it.”

She tuts, then pulls her hand away from him to hook a massive thumb around her panty line. She pulls it down, revealing a perfect shave and pink folds, with just the hint off a soft, round clit near the top of them. “Give it a kiss.”

“You can go straight to hell,” Dean rasps out in answer, though there’s a waver there admitting the first traces of uncertainty. He can’t be _completely_ sure what she plans to do, there are a few ways this could go, but almost none of them are gonna be a breeze.

“Oh, you wanna talk about hell, huh? Let’s put you somewhere hot to think about it for a while.” Her hand’s at his back again, dragging him up flush until his face is pressed unforgiving against her clit. It isn’t her hand that moves but her hips, rocking minutely back and forth to grind it over his face. She hums out a delighted, “ _Mmm_! Now that’s what I like to see - a man who knows his place.”

But that isn’t where she stops. Her panties get pushed down along with her jeans, and she wraps her fingers once again around his legs. Hovering around her waist, he watches as she lifts one to rest atop the bath tub edge, and then he soars through the air toward-

“Wait, wait, wait wait wait- Meg- don’t you freaking put me in there--”

She doesn’t falter, and he soars up a couple of inches (feet, from his perspective) until his head presses against soft, slightly wet labia. He reaches up on instinct to try and push himself away, but it’s even more fruitless than it was with her finger. She sweeps him up and down a few times, dragging his face and chest across her center, before teasingly nudging his head into her entrance. Any yelling he might be doing down there is swallowed by twitching muscle, slicked wet and pulsing softly as arousal strikes her.

She just holds him there, head in and nothing else, muscles tightening and relaxing for long, long seconds. Long enough to hear him beg, _please don’t shove me in there_ , and other such sad, sweet variants lamenting being gripped by her pussy.

Of course, she does it anyway. She works him in slow, head, then shoulders, then chest, gently pushing then pulling him out a little, then pushing him farther, careful not to break his little body as she gets loose enough to accept him. 

For Dean, the light gets farther and farther away. All he can see before him, beside him, anywhere is tight ping muscle, which seems to grip and grind him until he’s nearly breathless. It’s warm as hell, claustrophobic, and like a tighter version of waking up in his own grave - surrounded by darkness, with nobody to hear him yelling.

Soon enough her grip disappears from his knees, and two fingers push against his feet, nudging him in those final few inches until he’s held in by nothing but the tightness of her vagina and the way it seems to be pulling at him deeper and deeper still.

She drops her leg down, and all light disappears. Her lips close, sealing him in. She pulls up her panties and then her jeans, then shifts in place to feel him out.

“Fits like a glove, it’s uncanny,” she muses, and he can hear her voice all around him rolling muted through her body until it’s almost distorted too deeply for him to understand - _almost_. In no time at all he’s soaked through as she steadily leaks, wet from the feeling of him inside her and, more than that, the _thought_ about what it must be like in there for him. About what she’s doing to him. About how there’s nothing he can do about it. 

She slips her fingers under her clothes, and teases her clit with her middle finger. Her muscles clamp down, and Dean grunts in pain, pushing hard against the spot in front of him. “Oh _fuck_ ,” he hears her say, and she redoubles her efforts, grinding him like a cock and crushing out his breath as her body squeezes pleasure from him. It seems like the more he struggles the harder she clamps, and reverberating like thunder he hears, “ _Right there_ , god damn it, squirm- right there, you’re hitting my fucking-- Oh god, if you don’t make me come I’m gonna crush you, you understand? _Push_ \--”

And he does, as best as his constricted body will let him with his forearms up near his chest - grunting with effort, he _shoves_ them against the wall in front of him, firm and textured, what surely must be her g-spot.

And then he’s _flooded_ abruptly, soaked to the core as she comes all around him, muscles spasming and grinding and gnashing and gnawing until he thinks she’s gonna tear him apart with her cunt alone. Outside of her is the rumbling moan of a woman hitting orgasm, rubbing herself through it to get every scrap of what she can from it. 

Then it stills, slows, to only the occasional spasming jerk of a muscle to his left or to his right.

“Alright, you had your god damn fun, now let me _out_ you psychopath--” 

No answer. Not even a hum. Nothing. Just a new sensation- a sort of rhythmic rise and drop, _thud, thud, thud, thud_. Too loud to be the heartbeat he hears coming from all around him, it takes him a second to realize she’s _walking_. He’s being slowly smothered, gripped, soaked, and she’s not pulling him out.

She’s walking away, underwear up, out the motel door.

Leaving him in her.


	35. Watersports - Tiny!Steve and Unaware Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> Steve wakes up suddenly treading water, an ocean on all sides. It’s super dark, but doesn’t stay that way for long as Bucky lifts the lid of the toilet he’s in for his morning piss.

He knows he’s not in the ocean for a couple reasons. First off, the water’s fresh and not salty. Second, the overwhelming _smell_ of chemical bleach practically overpowering him, just about making his eyes water. It’s gotta be some kind of pool, then, or some kind of water treatment facility - probably the latter, because though Steve breast strokes arm over arm in a few different directions he never manages to find an edge, or a sloping that indicates an upward grade toward a shallow end.

He’s taken to calling out into the echoing darkness, sharply yelling, “ _Hello?”_

Nothing but his own voice echoes back at him for nearly fifteen minutes.

Then comes the thunder, the subtle shaking, the waves. Steady, rhythmic, regular motions unlike any earthquake he’s ever felt, casting him left and right under the bouncing tide. It’s all he can do to keep his head above water.

The darkness cracks. It starts with a single thin line, then envelopes like fast-forward sunrise expanding over the entire sky abruptly. When his eyes adjust, it ain’t the sky he sees.

It’s a person. It’s a person so god damn unfathomably large, so god damn _far away_ from his perspective that if it weren’t for his super soldier eyesight they’d start going blurry before he could ever land his eyes on their face.

He can see it, though. 

It’s Bucky - it’s Bucky larger than life, taller than any sky scraper, so huge that his movements almost seem slow motion. It’s only after he recognizes the titan before him that he pieces together other contextual clues. The pristine white wall that circles him, stopping around the middle of Bucky’s thighs. The roof overhead not a roof at all, but a lid.

Most importantly, most disconcertingly, it’s the way he watches two massive hands the size of houses glide toward Bucky’s waist, then furl around a zipper. He pops the button, and the sound of his zipper rolling down is a whole new type of thunder echoing all around him.

Oh, god-

“BUCKY– BUCKY, BUCKY STOP-” At the top of his voice, as hard as his lungs will let him yell it, so intense it hurts his throat and reverberates through his chest. Bucky doesn’t seem to hear him, the zipper reaches its lowest point, and the rustling of cloth precedes him pulling out the largest cock Steve has ever seen.

“BUCKY, BUCKY- DOWN HERE- LOOK- LOOK AT ME, I’M IN HERE- BUCKY DON’T-”

He thinks for a second that Bucky sees him - those bright blue orbs seem to settle exactly on him, there’s a long pause with his dick pointed at the water wherein nothing happens, and his chest lurches with the feeling that preempts relief.

But then he sees the revealed skin above Bucky’s dick, the flex and release of abdominal muscles, the relaxation of what holds back his bladder.

And it starts, a pressure-washer waterfall stream that aims directly for him to the soundtrack of Bucky’s deafening, self-indulgent relieved sigh. His stream hits the water so hard it slams Steve down fifteen or twenty feet, assaulted with hot piss that doesn’t stop. It churns the world in chaos, it sloshes him against the porcelain on the left side, then the right.

When it finally calms enough that he can break the surface, it’s just in time to watch Bucky’s hands curl loosely around his dick and shake once- a few more droplets falling in around him. He shakes again, and it’s at such a large scale that Steve can god damn _hear_ the flesh jiggle, shake, and land.

He watches as Bucky tucks his cock away again, as he zips himself up, and then his heart strikes with an unbelievable dread as Bucky’s slow-motion hand reaches out toward the handle to flush.


	36. Tiny!Pepper and Tony with a little frisky, dubiously consensual boardroom boner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a story prompt, how about Pepper becoming few inches tall and Tony gaining a secretary he can carry in a suit pocket. Teasing and handplay with a flustered Pepper and Tony wondering if he could keep her like this.
> 
> -
> 
> Glad to hear you're down for more Tony x Pepper stuff! For a slightly friskier prompt, how about Tony with a tiny Pepper in a meeting? He arrives a little early and has some fun playing with her, until someone comes in and he's forced to quickly hide her - on his seat, between his legs. As the meeting goes on, a bored Tony decides to have some fun and traps Pepper between his thighs, gently squishing her against them and, half-accidentally, against his crotch. Thank you for all your hard work!

Tony loves to learn how things work - he always has. He loves puzzles, he loves new machinery, he loves other people’s tech and their minds and their habits. It really shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that he’s been _fascinated_ with Pepper since day one, absolutely enraptured with her tiny form and how different the world must seem to her. Positively delighted by just the sight of her, and fond in the way that he often is of the AI or the intelligent machinery he builds - things just to the left of human with a mind of their own.

Pepper is far, far less impressed by the whole thing. She’s conceded to the first concept Tony pitched - being carried in the breast pocket of his suit so she can see the world at nearly her normal level, with no risk of being grievously injured by the moving parts and constant energy that is Tony’s workshop. Giving into that concession has been like a gateway drug for her manic boss, though, who can’t seem to stop himself from reaching up every hour to run his fingers over her through the fabric.

“ _Just checking-”_ his incongruous voice defends mildly the first time she yells at him about it. She says _check with your eyes_ and he dismisses it with “ _This is easier, takes less time, less concentration. Hard to see you at that angle. Plus, I don’t want you looking up my nose.”_

Tony’s an engineer. He works with his hands. His fingers are constantly engaged, always moving, and so probing her quickly is as natural to him as breathing.

When he’s not out in public or working in some kind of boardroom, office space, political rally, what have you - when he’s stripped down to just an AC/DC tee thrown over a long-sleeved Henley, he instead starts carrying her to whatever work-space he’s primarily inhabiting and he sets her on the flat surface of his desk. She gets to watch his massive body roll around the room at high-speeds in a desk chair with the knowledge that if she were underfoot he would _absolutely_ forget about her, he’d shoot off carelessly in a burst of manic energy, and he might not even notice until later if he were to accidentally do something terrible.

So she concedes to _that_ as well, and she does what work she can do on the tiny laptop and tiny phone he’d custom-built for her little hands to work with. She sits beside pens that are longer than her body, on paperwork that’s as wide as a living-room floor, with nuts and bolts and piece parts that dwarf her by comparison and that he occasionally has to move around in order to find her again.

When he runs out of ideas, he winds up rolling back toward her and – while Tony’s habits are almost _always_ annoying, he’s taken up Pepper’s least favorite. He descends a massive arm down onto the desk on either side of her, either surrounding her with forearms like a pen or propping an elbow up on either side so that her entire point of view becomes a massive wall of ceiling, chest, arm, and- at the very top- a massive face peering down at her with scrutinizing brown eyes that observe her every move. Every part of her. There’s no avoiding the awareness of it, and he shrugs off her discomfort in that same casual way he _always_ has even before she became like this.

Sometimes he sighs wistfully and talks down at her, or talks to himself _at_ her, but a _lot_ of the time he’s taken to absently plucking up a nearby pen and nudging her with it. Playing with her with it like it’s a stylus, tapping her little hand with the tip when she’s trying to concentrate on her phone, nudging her side or her back with it without even thinking.

She says, “So what’s the timeline on the cure? When are you fixing this?”

His answer’s always some variation of, “ _Working on it. Still- hashing some things out. I’ll figure it out, it’s just… You know.”_

And she hates the fact that it seems like he’s downplaying how low of a priority it is to him. How he’s taken to fiddling with her for a few minutes after he picks her up to move them. How he calls her _cute_ and _pocket secretary_ and asking _how much could I pay you to just stay like this for a while - six months, maybe a year, do some testing- micro-technology, reverse engineering Pym’s stuff, plus I just kinda like having you to play with_.

Not for all the money in the world, Tony, now _fix_ this. He backs off with a sigh, an _okay, okay, yes ma’am_ , but he still hasn’t, and he still propositions her every couple of days about it in that insistent way he has. That _Tony Stark always gets his way_ persistence. 

And the annoying, uncomfortable realization that there’s almost nothing she can do if he makes that decision regardless.

* * *

He spent the first five minutes spinning in circles in his chair. Pepper stood on the table watching him, arms crossed, shaking her head at the absolute irreverence and unmitigated energy of a bored Tony Stark who _already_ didn’t want to be in this meeting in the first place. To find out it was twenty minutes delayed was like pure torture, not even enough time to leave the building for a coffee, didn’t bring his work into the room because this was _supposed_ to be just a half-hour affair wherein he promised his mostly-undivided (partly undivided at least) attention. 

“Maybe we should get you one of those fidget spinners,” she volunteers dryly, a hint in her voice like she’s chastising him.

It makes him stop abruptly mid-spin, gravity carrying the chair forward another inch or two with the flex of his legs until he swivels back and promptly looms in, filling her entire world with his upper body again.

“Now that you mention it, not a bad idea,” he agrees, amused and playful sounding, suddenly lit up with a previously absent inspiration. “Matter of fact-”

He says, and that’s when Pepper’s eyes go wide because she _knows_ what he’s thinking.

“No. Tony, don’t. Do not. Don’t you dare-” She warns, her voice stern, and it’s like deja vu because she’s _sure_ she’s said exactly those words fifty times at her _regular_ size about some dumb, terrible thing he was definitely going to do anyway against her cautioning. 

Just like right now, when his index and middle finger loom in on her and gently but firmly _push_ on her chest, slowly knocking her off her feet. It’s not malicious, it’s not abrupt, and all things considered it’s probably the gentlest way he could force her onto her butt - a slow motion, controlled fall that she can’t resist because holding her ground is like trying to stop a _car_. Still, she lets out a soft _oof_ sound when she hits, and his fingers don’t let up.

They press down softly onto her stomach, and they cut off her view of everything beneath his shoulders - but his eyes and his smirk are still clearly visible as her only sky. He’s leaned in _close,_ close enough that she can feel the soft breeze his exhales make, that she can smell toothpaste on his breath. Ten inches away, maybe, at his scale, with his left arm propped up onto the table and supporting his head while he idly, lazily toys with her.

_Fidget spinner_ she’d said, and- probably thinking he’s the funniest man in the world- that’s exactly what he does. He presses the pads of those two fingers against her belly and her sternum, and he gently circles her around the table. It’s a smooth slide, her clothes protecting her and the wooden table top friction-less, so it’s a painless but _annoying_ glide. On instinct, she reaches her tiny hands up to grab at either of his fingers, her face still a mask of unflappable, unimpressed annoyance.

“Really?” she calls, and it makes his lips twitch up higher, his eyes sparking. That dangerous game of flirting he always tries to play with her is now spinning out of control, and it’s as though he’s taking her rebukes as a challenge or as encouragement to get progressively more bold.

“I’ve got to say, as far as the _fidget spinner_ phenomenon goes, they really missed a great opportunity,” He muses, stopping her movement but still pinning her effortlessly down with his middle finger. 

His index finger glides down from stomach to thigh, to the edge of where her tiny pencil skirt nearly hits her knee. Fingerprint whirls and gentle callouses catch on the fabric, and he reverses the movement to cleanly push it _up_. 

Her hands shoot down immediately around that middle finger, pushing fruitlessly at her rumbled clothes caught up under his nail.

“Anthony Edward Stark, I am going to _kill_ you,” she warns, slipping from annoyed to outright angry.

He doesn’t seem to notice the difference, intent as he is on watching her flail around under his fingertips. As curious as he is suddenly, and why he never thought of it before he has _no_ idea, but now that he’s got his mind on this track there’s an entire _world_ of possibility to explore. An entirely new branch of science, and he’s always had a relentless need to pursue that.

His index finger dips dangerously from the top of her thigh to the inside of it. 

“If they started putting out things like _you_ we’d have the next Bill Gates on our hands. Or... Bezos. Or Stark,” and then he crosses the line, pushing the tip of his finger forward to press gently against the tiny set of white panties covering her private parts, incidentally forcing her thighs to separate in the process. 

“Oh my _god-_ ” She nearly yells, incredulous, stunned to the point of disbelief at the audacity of it.

He takes it the wrong way.

From down here at this scale, she can see the moment his pupils dilate.

Suddenly, very abruptly, the sound of footsteps and the jiggling of a door handle invade the room. In a rough and unexpected _blink_ Tony’s hand curls around her, ripping her through the air too-quick and too careless to sweep her gently into the seat between his legs beneath the table. The first open but hidden spot he could think to dump her, because there are no breast pockets on this suit and the pants pockets are entirely too tight. 

The world goes from a wide open table or a hovering face to high, high walls of blue trouser fabric on her left and her right, coming together in nearly a v behind her. _Nearly_ a v, because now that she’s down here it’s very, very clear where his interest was going. The outline of him is visibly hard at the top of the left leg of his snug suit pants, reaching nearly down to the edge of the seat where he’s perched on it rather than settled back. 

From the end of his tip to the edge of the seat is only about another two inches, followed by a steep, lethal drop to the floor below - and the unfeeling shoes that live there, capable of thoughtlessly breaking her without the owner feeling anything through the soles.

Above her head, the unfinished unimpressive sight of the underside of the wooden table.

That’s it. Nothing else. The thighs are too steep to climb, and even if she did what in the hell would she do next?

She is, it seems, trapped here for the next half an hour or more - she can hear voices so loud they’re practically thunder overhead, coming from several different points in the room. Deafening in their intent to speak up loud enough to be heard, ironically rendering them incomprehensible to her down here. 

Frustrated, outraged, wanting to express her extreme displeasure with the situation she marches up to Tony’s _erection free_ thigh and slams her fist into it a couple times. The first one garners no response, but the second gets a full-thigh twitch and then a new horror - it pushes _back_ , slamming into her and sweeping her forth until it (and she) press into the other thigh.

Well, _other thigh_ being a kind way of saying Tony closes his legs and sandwiches her between one leg and his _boner_. It’s not enough to crush her, or hurt, or even really take her breath away. He’s _very_ careful in that regard constantly, but it _is_ enough that she’s practically molded around the shape of his cock, hard and emitting intense heat from her arm all the way down to her thigh.

She works to move in this confined space, frustratedly fighting against the weight on either side to get her arms out where they’re pinned against her and get them up at least over the ledge of the curve of his dick.

She’s successful, but he twitches against her- _it_ twitches against her, presumably with a fresh pulse of blood from the pleasure of feeling it. She can also loosely feel his heartbeat through it, and the way that it’s picking up a little. 

The _last_ thing she wants to do is give him the satisfaction of a good little twinge of pleasure through his pants, so in her last possible act of defiance she goes completely stone-still.

In a way, though, it’s a little bit like a man having an erection, his partner resting their hand on that erection, and despite not moving, just feeling the pressure and the _knowledge_ that someone foreign is touching it is not only enough to keep the person hard, but to gradually make them get a little harder just through the psychological piece.

That’s exactly the case here for Tony, it seems, because after only two or three minutes he swells a little bigger, a little more prominently, and the twitches start happening with gradually more frequency. It’s enough that he’s becoming distracted, that he’s been a little too hard a little too long, an itch that’s going unscratched and getting itchier.

He shifts his hips just a _little_ , subtly rubbing himself with his other thigh.

And, of course, with Pepper. That massive wall that makes up the soft flesh of his left thigh goes a little firm as he engages the muscle, and it presses up against her in a way she knows he probably thinks is gentle but in reality is encroaching on enough force to squeeze her breath from her. Beyond that, he _grinds_ , leg inching back and forth enough to rub her gently further down the length of his hard dick and then back up again. Back and forth, back and forth, subtly rubbing himself with his leg and her body, coaxing pleasure from it.

All the while, without a hint of any of this going on above the table, he talks with a steady voice that she _recognizes_ as his. He talks the way he always talks, confidently and non-stop, while his colleagues remain ignorant to the way he’s getting himself off with his tiny secretary’s body.

It’s hard to say how long this goes on. It takes up at least half of the meeting, an entire fifteen or twenty minutes of Tony gently parting his thighs just a half an inch and then pressing them together again, stimulating himself by taking away and returning the pressure. When he gets a little too into the feeling, which Pepper can tell by the sudden lurch of the member she’s pressed against, he takes to grinding again, desperately trying to wring something out of her at what she presumes is the peak of Tony Stark’s horniness. 

She’d be absolutely amazed if anyone ever made him wait this long and got him to this point without even getting his pants off.

At some point, the lights go off. The room gets quiet for a moment, until there’s a sort of tell-tale glow and trill of music announcing what seems to be some kind of presentation taking place at the very opposite end of the board room. A projector, maybe, or flat screen television with all the eyes in the room on it.

Just as abruptly, his thighs part - and then Pepper sees those two massive hands descend beneath the table to _oh so quietly_ unclasp and unzip his trousers. She’s _gobsmacked_ when they dip in and outright pull his cock out under the table, completely engorged and bright angry-red at how hard he’s gotten. The tip glistens with the steady leak of his precum.

It takes up almost the entirety of the space between his thighs as he sticks it out beside her, and even though she can’t see his face she can practically _feel_ the expectation radiating off of him. He throbs in the open air, cock bouncing down to the leather seat and back up again, the side of it ghosting her stomach as it moves.

He always did hate meetings. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was getting some kind of thrill, some kind of deep-down satisfaction at doing something like _this_ during one of them. He shifts back just a little, makes just a _little_ more room between the edge of the seat and the tip of his dick, and he waits.

Ten, maybe fifteen seconds.

When she makes no move to approach, his fingers dip in again and gently, firmly, unstoppably glide her forward until she’s pressed against it. 

The hand retreats.

She defiantly steeps away from it again.

Five seconds.

The hand returns, unswayed and unaffected, pushing her against it with the exact same gentle but pointed press.

And peels back again.

And she steps back again.

And this time, he sweeps her around with his fingertips and presses her directly against the head. He doesn’t pull away this time, but instead his fingertips at her back force her entire front against the head of his dick and circle it with her, rubbing her clockwise around the leaking slit.Then up and down. Then they start to force her _under_ it, at which point she starts flailing and biting out, “Okay, okay _okay_ I’ll do it-”

She’s not sure whether it’s her actions or her words that make it up to him, but whatever the case his hand peels back again, resting on his thigh as though expecting to have to pick up again where he left off. 

With no small amount of searing anger, she reaches out both hands to start rubbing them against the head of his dick of her own volition.

It _jerks_ hard, a thick and deep twitch, rocketing up a few inches and passing over her front and her face as it does. Evidently the thought of her doing this on her own _willingly_ ( in some capacity willingly, but also very much _not_ ) is enough to get a hard pulse and the sudden flood of fresh semen slipping out of him.

She copes by taking on her professional persona. That businesslike _do what you have to do to get things done_ detachment, her hard-working secretarial attitude taking over as she briskly rubs and coaxes a dick twice her size with her bare hands, stroking the ridge, the tip, the slit, then dipping down a little to reach the sensitive place on the underside of it.

Above her, she hears a long, _deep_ , slow contended sigh slip from Tony Stark.


	37. stucky jock strap ball smothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idk if this is up your alley, but for the prompts maybe steve being trapped in bucky's jockstrap while he works out? Aware or unaware. Or! Steve being hung like a necklace around bucky's neck and being smothered between his pecs. Just some ideas :)

“Sit tight, buddy,” is the only warning Bucky gives before the world starts rushing up around him. Above him -- so damn far above him he has to crane his neck back -- he stares up at Bucky’s face. It’s enormous, it’s a mile up and his eyes are so large it almost feels like it’s impossible to make eye contact with them. Like he’s looking into a pupil but instead of connecting he’s just seeing the black while Bucky’s seeing all of him at one time.

He feels so distant, so disconnected, he almost seems alien. Too big and too detached for Steve to really feel like they can even have a conversation anymore. His face is so far away, even, from the fingers wrapped around them Steve has to remind himself they’re connected. That the thick tree-trunk like knuckles and fingertips half-curled around him are Bucky’s, piloted by that hovering face.

He’s in such disbelief that he looks up to the guy above him for help from the very same guy’s hand slow-motion lowering him down, down, down the enormous plane of bare chest and bare stomach and toward -- he looks down -- the pit of crotch beneath him. 

Bucky’s other hand is holding back his waistband, granting Steve a gaping wide view down into his jock strap. It’s cavernous almost; he can make out where stomach becomes pubic hair, he can make out the flesh-colored shape of a flaccid cock, and then it goes dark.

“Buck-- Bucky-- Please don’t put me in there--”

Above him, Bucky’s voice is a near-deafening baritone, “Sorry, buddy, if you’re talking I can’t hear you. Tell me later after the run. It’s gonna be bumpy, alright, so try to hang on tight to my balls or something.”

And then those fingers open up, too quick for him to grab to keep from plummeting. He drops through the air into the dark maw from twenty feet up. Smacks onto steeply sloping cotton, and goes tumbling end over end down, down, down until he reaches the bottom. His side is what stops him, cushioned by the blockade of soft and fleshy skin. They’re testicles, both of them individually three times bigger than he is. They move like they’re alive, hugging up a little toward Bucky’s body so that he slips down on his back another couple feet. 

They sag again, settling on top of his thighs and pushing him snug against the wall of fabric behind him. He doubts Bucky even knows they did that, that’s just an automatic involuntary instinct that comes from sensation. Hell, he doubts Bucky even knows Steve’s thigh-deep under his sack right now. He only has a second to look up. 

Directly above his head within arms’ length is the head of Bucky’s dick, soft and at rest, slit closed, the whole thing curving down lazily and pointing at him. He can barely see around it, miles and miles and miles up to Bucky’s eyes and mouth where they almost seem to miss him, searching him out among his privates. 

Steve doesn’t think they even land on him before the other hand slowly closes the exit above him, sealing him in and allowing the fabric-elastic to firmly settle back into place. They’re snug, they hug his privates because that’s what a jock strap is _designed_ to do. It means that the wall of cotton-blend behind him may as well be steel, and that steel pushes him face-first into the seam between Bucky’s testicles. 

For a moment, there’s quiet. 

Then there’s chaos, as a thick unavoidable and probing force _pushes_ against his back. Shoves him deep into the folds of skin and sagging weight, nearly smothering him as they give around him like quicksand. That force at his back shoves him _up_ , then back down again, then back up again. It disappears, and instead the entire _world_ begins to shake. The boulders above him lift, jiggle, then _slam_ back down on top of him with the weight of gravity. He notices those probing digits right before it happens again, the fabric beneath him and the flesh above him shaking and bouncing brutally, jostling him against them and then burying him into them.

It’s just Bucky loosely cupping and bouncing his balls in his hand experimentally. They haven’t even started yet.

That hand moves away, the pressure slackens, and Steve _pushes_ at the flesh he’s buried in to peel himself out again. Gasps down air, sucking it into his chest. Those balls bury him up to chest now, gravity and fondling having drug him deeper down into the crotch of the jock strap. He struggles between them for a hand hold and a foot hold, trying to push-shove-drag-climb over the curve of them and out from underneath of them. They flex a little in response, surrounding his body and reeling him in as they almost sort of pucker, then release again.

Bucky takes his first step, and all that progress is almost gone in an instant. It feels like a swooping rush, the weight above him lessens just a little, and then it _slams_ back down again as his foot hits the ground, jerking him a couple inches down just because of gravity and fabric and the less than solid environment he’s navigating.

That was the left foot. The right one is next, another feeling of soaring, a little raise to the testicle on that side, and then a punishing _thud_ as it slams back down, trying to drag him under. He fights, absolutely _fights_ against the balls above him to try and stay above them, to try and stay on the upper curve of his sack instead of being swept beneath it.

He does alright while Bucky walks around the apartment, a lift-tud, lift-thud boob-boom-boom jostling shaking nightmare.

And then from somewhere around him, above him, everywhere, he hears an absent, “Hold on tight down there, buddy, I’m not stopping if you slip.”

Bucky starts running. It’s fucking chaos. It’s the lift-slam sensation coupled with an entire _shake_ as his whole package jiggles one direction and then another and then back and then the other and then and then and then, never giving Steve enough time to recover. He grabs wildly at skin, scrambles to try and stay above them, gripping and climbing and losing his footing and yelling at the top of his lungs.

It feels good. Knowing Steve’s down there, feeling him squirm around under Bucky’s balls, knowing he’s smothered beneath them and there’s nothing he can do about it. Bucky’s dick starts filling up in no time, further eradicating the space and steepening the slope behind Steve.

Soon enough, he slips up. Can’t grab on in time, and a _slam_ sends him sliding down, down, down beneath Bucky’s sack. He has to turn his head to one side to even be able to breathe, and that’s about all he manages. They’re everywhere. They’re everything, they consume his ceiling and his walls. They press down on his entire body, heavy as hell, pulling him in, slamming down onto his body over and over and over again. There’s no reprieve, no quarter, he has to push and knead them like a fucking kitten to keep skin out of his mouth. 

_Thud, thud, thud, thud_ , they more than body-slam him, they _crush_ him rhythmically. 

And then Bucky starts to sweat. It beads at the pores, it makes the fabric around him damp, and then it makes _him_ damp. It’s humid, and it’s _sweltering_ in here between them, beneath them. He can’t breathe, he can’t do _anything_ other than just _take it_.

Bucky’s run lasts half an hour, and by the time he’s done he’s rock hard at the feeling of those squirming little kneads between his balls.

He leaves Steve there for a while, just because it’s pleasant.


	38. giant cas somnophilia destiel unaware

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So a story where Cas starts growing to giant size in his sleep. Initially he and dean were sharing the bed til dean got shoved out by his growing boyfriend, now face to face with his boyfriends giant crotch. Dean yells but cas stays asleep, murmuring in pleasure as something (someone) is rubbed pleasurably between his crotch and the wall as he continues to expand

Cas sleeps like a god damn octopus. It took Dean a lot of getting used to, given his previously solitary lifestyle. Six or eight months of sleepless nights while an angel plastered himself half on top of Dean, arm over his chest, leg slipping between Dean’s. Thank god he wasn’t still at angel strength, or Dean never would have been able to shrug him off.

He got used to it eventually. Started feeling comforted by the weight of half a guy on top of him, bare skin to bare skin, pinning him protectively against the mattress. Puts him out like a light these days, deepest sleep he’s gotten in years.

That’s why he doesn’t notice at first. They’ve upgraded to a king sized bed, Dean’s asleep on his back, Cas is in his usual position nearly on Dean’s chest, and then Cas begins to grow. The weight isn’t all that significant at first, just twenty or thirty pounds -- enough to reasonably believe it’s Cas’s upper half curling up around his chest. Another twenty on his thighs, because Dean’s sleeping brain can’t do math.

It isn’t that, though. It’s just one bicep and one thigh expanding outward by inches and then by feet.

What wakes him up is when Cas sleeping pulls him in more, unconsciously trying to settle on top of him like he does every night. Unfortunately, that means actually reeling Dean underneath his hulking mass so that his clavical settles on Dean’s head and Dean’s hips wind up pulled between Cas’s legs. 

_This_ weight, coupled with the movement, is enough to get him shaken awake. He tries to flail on instinct, but his arms are pinned down by one left bicep and Castiel’s entire right side. Sleepy confusion lasts two or three seconds -- long enough for another growth spurt to hit, stretching over Dean so that he’s stuck under Cas from sternum to knee. Castiel’s legs are more than off the bed now, hell, his knees are resting on the floor. Dean’s got no idea how in the hell _that_ didn’t wake him up right away.

“Cas--” he croaks, voice sleepy and strained from the weight on his chest. He wriggles his shoulders trying to push up, to no avail. “ _Cas_ \--”

His voice is more like a sleepy whisper right now, muffled as it is by distance, skin, and pressure. It lacks urgency, and it evokes only a soft hum and a murmur of, “Dean...”

Dean realizes rather abruptly what part of Cas is pinning down his thighs; mostly because it gets warmer, firmer, and starts to creep up his thigh toward his pelvis. It pushes itself up between Dean’s legs, thick but still soft enough not to crush his junk, thank _god_.

Another growth spurt hits, and Castiel’s head presses against one wall while his feet hit the other. He grumbles sleepily, stretching his body out and absently ramming a heel through the wall. It cracks plaster, breaks drywall, and the whole damn thing gets punched out. Cas apparently doesn’t notice, he just ducks his head and shifts himself so that the bed -- and Dean -- are tugged more firmly downward beneath his hips.

Cas is destroying the damn house without even realizing it, and he just keeps trying to climb on top of Dean, or pull him-- 

“ _Ca-ah-as_ \--” He wheezes out, writhing desperately. The cock on top of him responds appreciatively, filling out and flushing, forcing itself up past Dean’s stomach and finally settling fully-hard on his ribs, just a few inches beneath Dean’s chin. Jesus, it’s covering him thigh to chin, it’s _enormous_. Dean can feel his heartbeat, can feel him twitch, and then with a voice like rumbling thunder, another soft, “Dean.”

And then the weight on him shifts, lifting up a little at his thighs, cock reeling down his body roughly -- silver lining, it lets him suck in a breath of fresh air.

And then it goes shoving itself right back up again, a little farther this time so that it settles with the tip of Castiel’s dick pressing against his right cheek.

“Oh, hell no--” He manages, struggling with renewed vigor. Fortunately being propped up a little by his cock means Cas isn’t flush on top of him anymore, and his dick isn’t so thick as to cover Dean’s width, so he manages to tug out one arm and then the other. Thank _god_. He presses a palm to either side of Cas’s cock and _shoves,_ grunting out effort as he tries to push the thing off of him.

Above him, Cas _moans_. Once again, those hips peel back so that the head of his dick passes down Dean’s front, down between his legs, nearly off the mattress entirely == and then quickly shoves back up again, passing over stomach, chest, face, all the way up to the top of the mattress. Belatedly, Dean realizes he’s had another growth spurt. He knows it, because he can feel rock hard length from head to toe with no reprieve. The mattress must be perfectly aligned under Cas’s pelvis, cushioning his dick to keep it from hitting rough ground.

The same cannot be said about his head. When he straightens his spine to turn his chin the other way, it cracks through that wall too so that his face is sticking out toward the living room and his feet are partway through the kitchen.

He does not even remotely seem to notice. Seems like his body is aware of only one thing -- the mattress beneath his hips, and the guy beneath his dick. 

Cas starts to hump in his sleep, grinding the underside of his cock in slow back-and-forth rhythm against the soft, warm, squirming sensation beneath it. Dean loses almost all ability to call out to him, because there’s a hard weight the size of a fucking person shoving itself up and down his body. It never fully leaves now, it’s too big, the head of that dick only gets to about his thigh before it’s _thrusting_ up again over him to settle the sensitive bundle of nerves beneath the head directly over his face.

It’s slow, but it’s constant. From the belly above him comes a rumbling purr. When Dean pushes up against it now, it’s to try and buy some room to freaking _breathe_. Cas seems to love it, though, because for _one_ brief instant the entire weight above him lifts off. Dean feels two seconds of fleeting hope before it _slams_ back down again, better lined up for comfort maybe, so Cas can start going at it in earnest.

On the next upward thrust, warmth and wetness travels up his torso and then over his goddamn _face_ , leaving him spluttering salty taste out of his mouth. It was a single bead of precum, and it’s the precursor to a hell of a lot more. Cas starts leaking like a fucking tap, bead after bead of it traveling over bulbous head, down the crown, and dripping onto Dean just in time for him to ram himself through it.

It slicks the way, those glides become more effortless, and Cas moans again more loudly, wanton. He leaks so fucking much it not only soaks Dean, it soaks the bed around him. Sheets, mattress, all of it getting drenched over the course of twenty fucking minutes.

Cas just _humps_ , he fucking humps and humps for what feels like eternity. He must not be awake enough or close enough to spill over, it’s just minute after ticking minute of back and forth and back and forth, friction-dragging himself over Dean’s body, rolling his pelvis into an entire soaking wet king sized mattress.


	39. Pt. 2 Tiny!Pepper & Tony, insertion cock vore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, any chance you’d do a carry on from the Tony X Pepper one with maybe accidental cock vote? Pepper being stuck in Tony’s balls, him being forced to go about his day because he can’t get out of meetings? That kind of thing? Please and thank you. 💕

Tony makes it about fifteen minutes through the feeling of tiny hands stroking and caressing his dick under the table before he knows he’s gonna come. All eyes are still strictly devoted to the presentation at the end of the conference room, so he feels brave enough to sneak a hand down around himself again. He inches back just a little from the table, enough that he can peak down between his legs and see his cock pointed at Pepper’s tiny form.

It’s hard for Pepper to see them, though, from her perspective. The head of his dick knocks her flat on her back; the ergonomics of a leather seat curve up beneath her spine like a small hill or a ramp, angling her just a little up. Her peripherals are walls of navy blue fabric, and they’re so unimportant from a priorities standpoint her mind doesn’t even acknowledge them.

What matters is what’s in front of her; there’s a slit as wide around as she is directly over her face; it’s leaking beads of precum that cling to the fleshy head and gently coast down to the ridge, where the droplets drop down stickily onto her chest. It’s _enormous_ , the entire head of it. It takes up the entirety of her vision, a textured pink-red expanse of skin. 

Quite suddenly, she can see it wrinkle, then become framed by more pink, loose skin and a row of knuckles right behind it pushing it forward. As they squeeze up toward the head, they force out a little more semen in a gush. They pull back slow, dragging the excess skin away and leaving the underside of it visible instead; one pulsing, thick vein that jerks within the confines of Tony’s fist.

He strokes his hand forward again, and while it’s inaudible to anyone other than her, she can plainly hear the filthy sound of sticky, wet skin pumping hard cock. At the top of that stroke the slit above her squeezes shut, then slowly opens again as he peels back - sticking to itself a little like dry lips that only reluctantly pry themselves apart again.

Tony fucks his fist before her two or three times before she realizes what his plan is, and she shoots her hands up to push against the head of his cock in a futile attempt to stop him. Her efforts earn her a surge of blood, a sharp pulse caused by sweet pleasure coursing through Tony’s pelvis at the stimulation. His hand jerks a little harder, accidentally pressing the slit down onto her chest and forcing a little air out of her lungs. He doesn’t pull it away, though, and jacks himself a little faster until Pepper can see the orgasm about to spring through him - it’s in the heartbeat twitch, in the rolling throb.

And then he _comes_ silently, a thick and enormous flood of semen rushing out of the slit above her and spilling over her chest, overflowing her face, between her legs, absolutely smothering her in it. That’s just the first wave. Another heated spike of pleasure in his climax brings forward a second gush, blocking all air and light and sound until she’s just _swimming_ in come. Her arms flail, struggle to break the surface, but the head of Tony’s dick pushes her back down again to keep her under while the third and fourth rounds surge forth from his balls and onto her.

Tony stares down with pupils blown wide, watching himself come, watching it absolutely _coat_ Pepper, watching her entire body fight what feels _so fucking good_ coming out of him. When the last of him is absolutely spent on her, he lifts his cock up out of the puddle. Pepper’s arms wrap around it, clinging to it to let herself be pulled from the mess. She looks up at him, and he can’t even see her expression because she’s covered in too much come.

He twitches one more time at the sight of it, lips parted, absolutely heated.

And then comes a rousing round of applause from around him startling him back into reality. Quickly, he tucks himself - and Pepper - back into his boxers with no time to arrange her properly. No time to do anything but seal her away and zip up his trousers so nobody catches him with his dick out. If he has to, he can hide the other evidence by closing his thighs over it.

Pepper feels herself be hoisted; the head she was clinging to quickly becomes a floor, becomes chaos, lifting her off the ground and jostling, jiggling, shaking her as Tony haphazardly tucks himself away. She’s still slick, she barely keeps traction, and her feet dig into the flesh to find purchase - just to wind up slipping into the slick, open slit. She nearly drops into it, her little arms gripping at anything as Tony’s waistband snaps closed above her and seals out all light.

His dick’s still pointed upward, curving toward his belly. Gravity’s not her friend; it does its best to drag her down, and she doesn’t have anything to grab onto to stop it. Inch by inch she slips into the hole, until finally too much of her body weight weighs down and she falls toes-first into Tony’s shaft.

It pulses around her again at the sensation, clenching up tight and then relaxing again; it creates sort of a vacuum, the tightening expelling air and the relaxing sucking some - and her - down into it again. His walls are wet with semen, they lubricate the way down, and it almost starts to feel like his cock is wringing sensation out of her tiny form. Like it’s pulling wantonly at her, gripping, dragging her further and further along.

Tony’s losing his fucking mind over it. He can _feel_ her inside his dick, and if he hadn’t just come he might be close again already. His fingers curl too tightly around his pen, one of his legs starts bouncing with wired energy - inadvertently shaking her deeper down with the movement.

Finally, Pepper’s feet press into a closed ring of tissue, and the weight of her forces it to expand .

She drops into a gap, and the ring contracts again, sealing her in. It’s completely dark, it’s like a tiny room barely big enough for her - her head almost grazes the ceiling, and she can’t stick her arms all the way out without pushing against a fleshy wall.

Tony snaps the pen he’s holding. Bites his tongue to hold back a moan.

Someone says, “You alright, boss?”

Words tumble out of his mouth at light speed just like always, Something about always being alright and then the price of gas and then the fossil fuel industry and destroying their planet and how’s the recycling technology coming along, and soon enough the subject is changed.

Pepper can hear his words reverberating all around her, his voice godlike and consuming, coming from _everywhere_. She can feel his heartbeat, a constant th-thud rhythm in the walls around her. Which, by the way, periodically squeeze up and then relax like a fucking water balloon or something. Tony shakes his leg again, the entire room jiggles and shakes, throwing her off her feet.

She yells, but her voice is insulated and muffled to even her own ears. Walls and inches of flesh absorb all sound, just like they absorb impact as she starts slapping her palms onto them. _This_ makes them squeeze up again, and from a small outlet now-familiar precum surges into her room.

She knows where she is. Oh, _fuck._

A painstaking twenty minutes passes before people stand up to leave. Tony, mindful of the mess between his thighs, does not join them. He declines to shake any hands - _germophobia_ he says, and one by one people pass out of the room until he’s completely alone.

He wheels back instantly, snatching a handkerchief from his pocket to mop up all his spend from the seat between his legs, then drops fingers down to start probing and shaking his sack through his trousers.

“Pepp? Pepper, you in there?”

His answer is a twinge, a jolt, a ripple of _hot-good-fuck-yes_ through his sack that he takes as an affirmative.

“ _God_ that feels good, whatever you’re doing- how in the hell did you even get in there? Not that I’m complaining, I think it’s gonna take a round two to come you back out again–”

A knock at the door interrupts him. He rips his hand away from himself, swiftly shoving the handkerchief into his jacket pocket.

“Hey boss, we’re having kind of an emergency we need your opinion on.”

“Not right now, I have an appointment.”

“Sorry, sir, but it can’t wait.”

Shit.

He sighs, nods, and stands. Begins walking, following Employee # 3467 down the hall toward the lab.

Pepper’s world begins to shake. Walking is a rhythm that disrupts her tiny room with mini earthquakes, they knock her off her feet over and over again until she resigns herself to sitting down in a small puddle of warm semen, doing her best not to get seasick or overheat from the sweltering body heat coming from all around her. To herself, she mutters an annoyed, “Just hurry up and get me out of here.”

He does not hurry up. He can’t, in fact, because he’s dragged to a lab where six geeks need him to solve something for them, and he’s plunked down into a chair - his balls sing at the feeling, and he thinks _Sorry, Pepper_ without being able to really do anything about it. It takes three or four hours for him to figure out what it is. At one point it even requires a bathroom break, and… standing in the stall with one hand on his shaft and the other on his balls knowing his secretary is in there is an alarmingly hot experience.

He talks to them while he idly rubs them, muttering apologies and right after muttering about how she feels _really good_ \- punctuated by a sharp bounce or three or five of his sack that sends her pinging into wall after wall. She hears a reverberating moan, another _sorry_ that seems like it’s more about the fact that he has to stop than the fact that she’s in them.

And he goes back to work.

And he has dinner at the office.

And he forgets she’s in there, because she goes still and he sits still and Tony is nothing if not a workaholic. He devotes his entire brainpower to the job, and absolutely blanks on the tiny Pepper trapped in his balls.


	40. Stucky CockRing Chronicles Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shrunkenandtwisteddoc asked:  
> Writing prompt: Giant Steve getting a cock piercing, and the tiny ended up being tied to and wore like an accessory, provide constant stimulation for the giant

So here’s the thing: whatever magic that turned Bucky into the tiny little thing he became _also_ did a number on Steve’s mind. It’s not chemical, it’s not something the serum can shake off, and it’s skewing his thoughts so that they almost seem logical to him. He doesn’t suspect a thing about it, and the ideas that he has he assumes are entirely his.

The justification for this particular one? If Bucky’s gonna be that small, he needs to be some place safe. If he’s going to be some place safe, it’s going to be on Steve’s person. Pockets aren’t safe enough if something were to happen, but every guy guards _one_ particular spot on their person just on instinct.

And, you know, if he’s gonna be down in there anyway… might as well get something out of it, right? Two birds, one stone.

The piercing he got a while back healed within a couple of days, because that’s just the way his body works. It’s a simple thing that goes across the underside parallel to the head of his dick, capped by a small ball settled on either side of his frenulum. 

Can’t pretend he isn’t a little pleased about how this whole thing is working out, and though Bucky might not have been on board with the idea, Steve knows what’s best when it comes to his sweet little thing. It’s two tiny little clips that attach to either of Bucky’s wrists, and those are attached to the ball-ends he screws onto the piercing. 

The end result is Bucky’s arm stretched out to either side and attached to the ends of his piercing, with his entire front and his stomach pressed against the skin in between. Those first little angry protest-kicks felt _amazing_ , and if anything they only drove home what a great decision this was. Later on when Bucky comes to his senses and realizes Steve’s only keeping himself from the enormous outside world, he’ll accept the apology.

Meanwhile, on Bucky’s end of things - the world’s not all that great. He may be small, but the serum’s still there. The one upside to this is it means his shoulders don’t ache and the muscles in his arms don’t get sore, but that’s… the only silver lining to be found. His entire visual range is reduced to just the inches of Steve’s cock; the soft skin directly in front of him, the ridge of cock head directly above, and if he twists his neck far enough in either direction he can maybe sort of see around Steve’s thigh to the fabric of his underwear.

He keeps Bucky in there all. god. damn. day. He _sleeps_ with Bucky on there, rolling over on top of him off and on throughout the night, absently grinding him with a middle of the night erection that happens _every night_ just as a product of Bucky’s existence there. If Steve sleeps on his back, it slowly lifts him straight up in the middle of the night, and then gently douses him with precum when Steve leaks.

Sometimes Steve reaches his hand down his boxers first thing in the morning and jacks off without even remembering Bucky’s in there until after, when there’s come sloshing down his entire front and he’s gasping out a soft _sorry about that_. He gets up and walks to the bathroom every morning, wraps his hand around both his dick and _Bucky_ , and takes a piss like it’s not even a problem. Bucky gets to feel the expanding and contracting of the soft flesh above him while he does it, and he gets the wind knocked out of him two or three times when Steve’s done while he shakes it off.

Then he tucks both his dick and Bucky into his underwear and he goes about his day. Sometimes that means going for a run, which means a god damn hour of the world bouncing up and then _slamming_ back down again, smacking him repeatedly into balls, sweat slowly seeping in and filling his mouth with the taste of salt.

He showers and leaves Bucky on there because _you gotta get clean anyway, right?_ and a soap-covered hand strokes both Bucky and his dick in the same maneuver. 

Frankly, it’s starting to feel like Bucky is just synonymous with dick to Steve. Like he belongs there, and what effects Steve’s cock just effects Bucky by default. 

If he has business to attend to, if he’s got a long train ride, if he’s got a meeting, Bucky’s there for it - and Steve’s gotten into this habit of absently nudging him through his pants. He’ll shift his legs into a wide and comfortable spread, absently adjust himself so his dick’s pointed up and laying across his belly rather than hanging down, then poke Bucky until he starts moving around. Gets Steve hard without fail, and he suspects the guy’s only doing it because he’s bored. Bucky’s become his default ‘feel good’ entertainment, his absent pleasure to make the world feel nicer.

The worst god damn part about it is he occasionally hears Steve talking to someone about how bad he needs to get laid, how horny he is, how he needs a date. 

And what, exactly, he plans to do with Bucky during that mess.


	41. Stucky CockRing Chronicles Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Your fic with Bucky attached to Steve’s cock ring - 👀 I would absolutely be down for more of that. Either more in depth or maybe Steve finally getting laid? I’d be down for whatever you’d be willing to write!

The first day he spends attached to Steve is a frustrating and boring affair. He spends all of his time more or less hugging the underside of Steve’s dick just beneath the head, and his only mental stimulation comes in the form of walking (which jostles Steve’s entire package), pissing (which results in a hand dipping down, wrapping around his legs, tugging him out, the humiliating experience of watching him pee, the _shake shake_ that follows it, then getting tucked right back in), or the moments wherein Steve sits and absently pokes at Bucky until he starts moving.

He gets a little hard off and on throughout the day, but where things really get precarious is when Steve goes to bed. Bucky’s exposed to light and fresh air for a while as Steve walks around naked, Bucky gets an upside-down view of the floor hundreds of feet down for twenty or so minutes as Steve treks back and forth from his bedroom to the bathroom, as he brushes his teeth, as he goes about his routine - all the way up until he slides on a silky set of boxers once again encasing Bucky in darkness.

Muffled from above, he hears a deep, “Night, pal,” which is followed by a little squeeze from fingers that push him into soft cock flesh. 

And that’s it, for a while. For nearly an hour, Steve lays unmoving on his back. Bucky’s settled on his balls, supported and cushioned in a way that might almost be comfortable if the full weight of Steve’s dick weren’t pushing down on him.

After that hour’s up, the atmosphere changes. With no warning, gravity starts tugging him to the right, one massive hip rearing up overhead like a tidal wave, Steve’s dick and balls bounce and jostle and move around - then lift, and then all of it falls onto him at once. Not just Steve’s cock now, which pins him to the sheets, but the weight of his hips and the flesh above it. He almost can’t breathe, and it’s in this panic that he starts writhing against the underside of Steve’s cock. Kicking, trying to get his attention to wake him up.

One part of him wakes up, anyway. After having gone through it three or four times today, Bucky’s well-versed in the experience of blood flowing south. It begins with the normally soft, malleable flesh above him becoming firmer. It gets warmer little by little. It expands, a pressure on his chest and his arms forced just a little farther apart. As it grows it drags him up the sheets along with it, and after ten or fifteen minutes it’s a steely and unyielding pressure that thumps in time with Steve’s heartbeat.

Lesson officially learned, he goes still. Too little, too late - Steve’s already aroused, extremely asleep, but his body moves on instinct. He humps the mattress beneath him.

By that, it means he humps _Bucky_. It starts out with a downward drag as Steve’s hips pull up a little, soft cotton sliding beneath his back. Then a forward thrust as they move forward again a little more quickly, but accompanied by a downward force as he seeks out pressure and friction, grinding Bucky and his cock into the plush mattress beneath him. That _does_ steal his breath, and he can only inhale once Steve’s hips pull back again.

Above him, a sleepy and slurred moan precedes another forward thrust, and the vein that runs above Bucky’s chest pulses like mad. He stays there for a while, the full force of his cock and the full pressure of his hips grinding Bucky down. Little micro-thrusts barely move, rocking hard cock back and forth over him - too small to drag him, just enough so that the vein goes back and forth over Bucky’s body over and over again.

And then he peels back, and thrusts forward again. The second time, the sheets beneath Bucky feel wet. Not hard to guess the source, Steve’s started leaking and soaking the sheets beneath the head of his cock, then ramming Bucky through the slick of it as he ruts.

He never comes. This lasts for hours, off and on - he’ll hump for nearly twenty minutes, then go still. He never goes soft again, he stays rock-hard and thumping pulses onto Bucky for another twenty or thirty minutes in between his dreams - then the humping starts up again, the moaning, the leaking, and Bucky swears he gets close to coming at least three times throughout the night.

He almost sobs with relief when the weight peels up again, gravity rearranges, and he’s jutting up into the air against damp boxers rather than being crushed into the mattress. That relief doesn’t last too long either - a few minutes after his reprieve a new pressure starts - something that more pointedly curls over the fabric of the boxers, less pressure than the mattress, but more deliberately aimed. Something presses into Bucky’s back, circles in tiny movements to grind him into the sensitive vein against his chest. 

After that, the full expanse of it consumes him. He’s wrapped head to toe, gripped against cock, and massaged roughly into it by what he now knows to be a hand. There’s a rumbling _mmm_ above him, and it isn’t long before light and air replace his ceiling - followed by the hand proper, which wraps around his lower half and Steve’s cock.

Steve grips himself mid-shaft and strokes up, dragging loose skin and his rough palm against Bucky, pushing him into flesh and dragging him up an inch or so with it. He strokes down, pulling the skin back with it, dragging over Bucky’s back and down his legs when the cock ring keeps him taut and unmoving. The next upward pass is more loose, it glides over Bucky’s back more easily - but it’s to massage the head above him and gather up a ridiculous amount of pre-cum that’d been steadily flowing for the last few hours. Steve drags his hand back down, positively fucking coating Bucky with semen. 

He kicks his protest again, another sleepy _mmm_ sounds, and then the hand clamps down around him and the cock. He strokes, and it _sort of_ drags Bucky along with it - until the restraints at his wrists prevent him from moving, at which point the hand continues on without him, gliding over his body, keeping the pressure on his shoulders but still stroking his cock the rest of the way. Same thing on the way down, dragging him about an inch along the underside until his arms are taught and the backs of his fingers continue on their merry way to finish out a satisfying stroke.

Steve’s hips shift a little. Bucky can’t see over the head of Steve’s engorged cock to know it, but Steve’s sitting up and cracking open his eyes for the first time this morning. He’s got a rhythm going that feels fucking _amazing_ , he’s been hard all night, his dick is already pulsing with pleasure. 

The rhythm stutters for a second, pausing with an index finger pressed against Bucky’s back. Like rumbling thunder, he hears a slurred and breathless, “Shit, sorry, I forgot you were down there.”

But the hand doesn’t actually stop moving. A little gentler, a little slower, but he’s still stroking himself off with Bucky pressed against him even as he apologizes. Bucky can hear the rise and fall of his chest, his quick panting breath, he can feel the constant throb of Steve’s cock against him, and the hand _doesn’t stop_.

“Forgot I put you on my dick. Don’t worry, I’m almost done, okay? It’s gonna be quick,” Steve’s voice is careless and heady with lust, and then his hand picks back up again as he slumps into the pillows beneath him. For a few strokes it’s the same as it was, gradually a little tighter and a little faster, but the closer Steve gets to orgasm the more his fingers seem to find Bucky and grind him in at the top of his upstroke. 

He grips so hard Bucky feels his back crack. Above him, a steadily rising crescendo of _ah- ah- mmm, mmfuck-_ until finally, finally, Steve’s hand wraps tight around the top half of his cock, encasing Bucky in darkness, jerking him back and forth fast and hard and then a shuddering _ripple_ passes through the hard wall he’s ground against. Immediately after, hot and sticky semen gushes down over him, soaking him entirely. It doesn’t stop there, the inside of Steve’s knuckles press him into it, circle him into the slick, and a second shuddering ripple rolls through him followed by a deeply satisfied groan. Another wave of it rolls down, wetting Steve’s hand, positively encasing Bucky in it, setting up the perfect slick heat for the final third pulse of Steve’s orgasm.

Things slow down. The pressure eases off. Steve keeps stroking himself self-indulgently through the after-shocks, irreverent of Bucky’s condition, rolling his hips up into his own hand a few more times before it falls away.

When he stands and finally speaks, Steve sounds amused. “Gonna have to be more careful with you down there for that, huh?”

Evidently that promise gets forgotten two weeks later when Steve finally secures that date he’d been talking about. _I gotta get laid_. Bucky’s there for that, too, and the look of quick apology on Steve’s face doesn’t make up for the fact that he doesn’t even bother rolling on a condom first.


	42. Stucky CockRing Chronicles Pt 3

Two weeks after Steve starts wearing Bucky like stimulating jewelry “for his own good”, he gets a date. He knows this because Steve doesn’t bother trying to hide it, he gets ready naked all the while talking to Bucky and not so much listening back. He says, “Listen, don’t worry pal, if it turns into anything I’ll take you off first, okay? It’s a first date, how far could even go?”

That, at least, is some consolation.

So he’s there for the duration of it, tucked between dick and balls with the girl none the wiser, listening to them talk and feeling Steve’s cock twitch every time she laughs. He dozes off at some point, and he wakes up when they start walking - presumably walking her home.

The walking stops for a while, and there’s silence.

And then there’s a gentle southward rush of blood, making the weight against Bucky go from soft and malleable to semi-firm, a little thicker, a little warmer.

The walking starts again, bouncing him against half-hard dick for a while. Out of nowhere, there’s a sudden pressure - something pushing against Steve’s pelvis, pressing against his dick which in turn presses Bucky’s back into the balls behind him. More heat floods south, and he’s more than used to the sensation of being slowly raised up from upside down to right-side up as Steve’s dick flushes properly hard. He’s used to feeling the pressure of cotton or jeans against his back, he’s even used to the feeling of Steve’s probing hand.

He is not used to whatever this is - it’s heavier, it’s ten times warmer, and it’s only the gentle give or the ergonomic shape of it that straddles Steve’s dick rather than crushing it that keeps him from being pushed past the point of breathing.

The grinding starts. Whatever it is rubs hard down against Steve’s curved dick, hot, back and forth, over and over until Steve’s rock-solid underneath him and precum begins to bead.

Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s going on.

The sudden rumbling of a zipper precedes the gaping hole that manifests above him, courtesy of Steve shucking his boxers down a few inches to allow his dick to spring up. Above him he can’t see Steve’s face, or the ceiling, or anything so comforting. Above him is pink, soaking wet flesh. The biggest pussy he’s ever seen in his entire goddamn life, hovering like a fucking UFO above him.

“Steve,” he warns. Too low for the girl to hear, but thanks to the serum he knows Steve picks it up just fine. “Take me off before you put it in her.”

Steve’s breathless somewhere above him, and he murmurs under his breath, “I’m not gonna do it, relax, just gimme five more minutes.”

Murmured so low it’s less than a whisper to the girl kissing on his neck, but clear as day to Bucky.

The folds above him dip precariously, but Steve’s cock curves toward his stomach so there’s no real chance of penetration. She does, however, settle her wet length over Steve and roll her hips forward, so that she’s dragging every bit of her sex up Steve’s length - and up Bucky’s back, nearly smothering him between the two bodies and absolutely soaking him to the bone. Steve’s cock throbs hard beneath him, slamming him up into labia. He doesn’t get the chance to yell for nearly five minutes, because she keeps gently passing herself back and forth along the underside of Steve’s dick - from the wet sounds he’s hearing presumably they’re making out.

She peels up finally, and he sucks down air. Steve’s dick stands straight the hell up, rigid, pulsing with blood.

“Steve. Don’t you fucking dare-” He warns again. 

What he gets back is a breathy, distracted, “I won’t, I won’t, I’m not gonna, just gimme a minute.”

She lowers her hips down, down, until the tip of his cock brushes along her folds. Teasing.

“Steve, I’m serious, please-” though all his wilding and kicking doesn’t do much to help stop this - exactly the opposite.

“I’m not gonna push in, I’m not gonna, just let me– Just give me a minute–” 

The tip of his cock dips gently into her entrance, and it’s only three or four feet over Bucky’s head. He can see it looming in vivid detail, the way the head just barely breaches before Steve’s hips flex back down again. And then back up again, and then back down - the same inch of his dick teasing in and out of her.

He knows where this is going.

“Steve, do not put me in there.”

This time, he gets back a long minute of breathy silence and twitching, shaking hips that stop only right above Bucky’s head.

And then a breathy, “Just lemme try it one time, buddy, just one-”

Steve pushes in, and Bucky is engulfed. He’s dragged into darkness, into heat, into pressure. The moan that girl lets out he feels more than hears, rumbling from all around him right before her muscles clench down and knead him into Steve’s throbbing cock. 

They’re still in unmoving for a long minute - at least from their perspective. Even without pulling out the world is still organic and pulsing for Bucky. Her walls clamp down and go soft, clamp down and go soft, and in response Steve’s cock thumps with pleasure inside her. It’s like they’re speaking a fucking language, and every word grips Bucky so tight he can’t breathe.

Fresh wet gushes down over him, exponentially more than Steve ever did - he gasps, then uses the flesh beneath him to drag it off his mouth, shaking his head back and forth against the vein on Steve’s cock so he can breathe.

This time, the moan he hears is Steve’s.

The stillness is broken suddenly, with a mile of flesh dragging up and up and up his body while Steve pulls him out. All the way, until it’s just the head of his dick again, and Bucky’s flooded with cold and air and light and vision. He takes this opportunity to yell, “OFF, OFF NOW-”

Above him, Steve rumbles - Bucky doesn’t know if it’s to him or the girl, but it doesn’t particularly matter. It’s, “Feels so fucking good,” and then his world is moving again, affixed to Steve’s cock as he pushes back into that heat. He’s inside another second or two, not nearly as long, before he’s pulled back out again. Steve pulls out only to just above Bucky’s head so that he gets a burst of fresh air and light, the perspective of two titanic bodies moving what looks like slow motion, and then he’s thrust back into crushing darkness.

This slow and measured pace only lasts for a few minutes. It builds, it worsens, until Steve’s hips are pistoning him in and out of her - and then just in her when he stops completely pulling out. They shift positions, she must turn or something, because rather than dragging him into malleable muscle he instead starts shoving Bucky down, grinding his sweet spot against Bucky and Bucky against a hard, rigid wall. 

The moaning becomes a constant. The grinding becomes nonstop. It’s like he’s looking for Bucky with each punishing thrust of his hips.

Bucky can feel when he’s close - not that he hasn’t been pulsing this whole time, but because the vein above him is practically angry with it. The leaking’s a tidal wave. The throbbing against him is unmistakable, rolling twitches that go from base to cock head over and over and over again until it suddenly fills to max capacity, hard as fucking diamonds, and a deafening groan sounds overhead.

Steve spills into the girl, down the slit and head of his own cock, and down onto Bucky as well. Not that it matters too much, he drags his hips back and then thrusts them forward hard to drag Bucky through his come. It pulses again.

And again.

And again.

Cresting, hot pleasure that Steve drags out every last drop of for an entire excruciating minute.

His rhythm slows.

Goes still. 

Stops inside her, with her come and his come all flooding down Bucky’s form, and Steve’s cock his only companion twitching gently on top of him.

He doesn’t pull out.


	43. Stucky CockRing Chronicles Pt 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tbqh, I'd quite enjoy reading about more of Steve's dates in the Cock Ring Chronicles. Or, probably, anything else you do there. -- bitty

It’s like that experience opened up a whole new door for Steve. He knew jerking off in the mornings with Bucky down there on his dick felt good, he knew just having him moving around down there during the day was nice, he knew _sex_ was nice, but for some reason he never put two and two together. After he came the hardest, the _best_ he’s ever come in his entire damn _life_ , he knew there was no way he could take Bucky off of him the next time. 

That date didn’t end with just one round, either. 

Bucky spent god knows how long in the dark, Steve’s cock never quite going soft, sandwiched between gently throbbing dick and the muscular wall beneath him. The only difference now is that every movement sent come sloshing around him, nearly suffocating him in it until he writhed around enough to get it off his face.

This, of course, provided really lovely stimulation to the vein and sensitive nerves he’s pressed against. One particularly fitful series of flailing squirms earns him a low, heated sound - and right after, both Steve’s cock and Bucky slide back through tight heat just a couple of inches.

Then forward a couple of inches, right back to where he started, both the girl’s fluid and Steve’s cascading over his face. He twists left and right to clear it, there’s another soft moan, and Steve pulls out another two inches nice and slow before gently humping back in.

It goes like that for six or eight rounds, the slowest and most deliberate fucking possible, until it becomes rhythmic again. Bucky’s back slides up and down tight, wet muscle that grips at him and clenches at him, grinding the breath out of him. Steve’s dick is absolutely loving it, he can tell by all the pleasurable throbs rolling through him. He goes back to deliberately angling his cock so that it grinds against Bucky on every thrust, battering his muscles and stealing air from his lungs.

In the dark, Steve’s cock is all he can see. It’s all there _is_ , pounding away at him while he fucks his way toward orgasm, absolutely loving the sensation of his best friend squirming around against him inside the clenching grip of this woman’s vagina. It doesn’t take long before he’s properly going at it, his thighs slapping against hers, shaking Bucky so rough and so fast he’d be sick to his stomach if he’d eaten before this.

A loud moan, a twitch so hard it cracks his back between flexing muscle, and eventually seed spills down over Steve in thick gushes again, rolling heavy down his head and over Bucky in waves and douses. He just keeps _coming_ , Jesus fucking Christ Bucky had no idea one person could come so much for so long.

He comes twice more in her before he finally pulls his spent dick out, tucking it and Bucky away into his briefs still damp and coated in semen so that he can kiss her goodnight and walk home.

That night in the shower, Bucky calls up to him, “You said you were gonna take me off, asshole!”

Steve hums unperturbed, his hand venturing down to curl around his dick and Bucky, giving it a thoughtful stroke. “I was, I really was, but damn I’m glad I didn’t. Buck, you feel _amazing_ in there, Jesus. If you knew what you felt like you wouldn’t ask me to stop.”

“Steve, you gotta take me off next time. I can’t _breathe_ in there, you were practically drowning me in your fucking come.” 

Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, because as soon as it’s out of his mouth some blood flows south into Steve’s cock - it twitches to life, and his fingers curl up a little around it.

“Yeah?” he breathes, squeezing himself and consequently Bucky. “Bet you were coated in it, huh? That why you kept squirming around so nice on me? God, I can’t wait until tomorrow, I gotta feel it again.”

No amount of shouting dissuades him, and eventually to shut him up Steve starts jacking off underneath the spray of the shower.

The next day comes, dread and anticipation build up in Bucky - it builds up in Steve, too, he can tell. The guy keeps reaching down and gripping himself, keeps flushing half hard, Bucky’s assuming it’s just at the thought of what he’s gonna do tonight. 

When the time comes, Bucky’s got it in his head that he’s gonna start yelling at that girl - except as soon as he’s exposed to air it’s not a girl he sees but rather the translucent latex of a condom. He stares up through it at Steve’s face, looking directly at him as massive fingers roll it down over his dick.

 _You fucking asshole_ , he thinks. No point in saying it, neither of them are gonna hear him through his rubber prison walls. He’s secured firmly, encased in something he knows Steve doesn’t even really need to use - which means he’s just doing it because of Bucky. He doubts it’s for Bucky’s safety, for any kind of consideration on his part, and…

Jesus, if he had to guess it’s because he wants to keep his semen in with him.

Steve and the girl lay down this time, chest to chest, one of her legs thrown over his thigh while they make out and touch and whatever else Bucky can’t see happening. All he can focus on is the sight of her pussy above him, and how Steve’s braced at her entrance once again like he’s fucking teasing Bucky. Leaving him in suspense.

He moves, Bucky thinks _this is it_ , but instead he’s dragging the entire length of the underside of his dick up along the girl’s folds on the outside. With his condom prison he doesn’t feel wet, no flesh, just the immense pressure and heat - and of course, the twitch from Steve that follows it.

He drags himself back down again and braces at her entrance. Bucky watches it get closer to his head by slowly creeping inches, just to have it pull away again and another roll up between her lips. Even this is a brutal amount of pressure, and he’s still sore as hell from the day before.

Steve drags himself back down, braces again, and Bucky finds himself groaning out, “Steve, please don’t.”

Steve’s cock flexes, dipping in just an inch. Bucky sees it, the top of his cock disappearing inside her and then pulling back out again - just to drag up her center. Bucky honestly doesn’t know which of the three of them Steve is teasing right now.

He drags back down, he braces again, he breaches just an inch… and pulls out again. He can hear the girl moan above him, he can see her flex and try to pull. Steve pushes in that inch and then _waits_ there for long, brutal seconds before creeping in a little more. It’s right above Bucky’s head now, he can feel heat emanating off her. He can see pretty pink muscle tightening up and going loose, tightening up and going loose, massaging the tip of Steve’s dick in her unconscious want to pull him - and Bucky - inside her. 

“Please, man, I really don’t wanna go in there. Please don’t fuck her with me,” it’s lamented to an unsympathetic dick, which - as though by direct response - tips in another half inch so Bucky’s upper half is surrounded by black and then _squeezed_ against Steve’s dick.

Steve drags them both back out again. Then gently eases the tip in to right above Bucky’s head. Above him, he can hear a rumbling voice so loud and so low it’s almost thunder, “ _God_ it’s gonna feel so good to shove into you.”

But he doesn’t. He teases again, dipping his cock into just Bucky’s upper half before pulling out again. This time, a bead of precum slips down his head and along Bucky’s front. He’s leaking already and he hasn’t even made it in yet.

He does this three or four more times, teasing Bucky with the thread of pushing into her over and over until he _finally_ relents and keeps on slowly coasting inches up until Bucky’s entire body is immersed and all light disappears. 

Gravity shifts around him - and then suddenly it isn’t Bucky being dragged in and out with ruthless force but rather the _world_ dragging itself up and down around him. The girl’s straddling Steve, riding him, bouncing up and down in his lap and spearing herself on both him and Bucky while Steve lays back groaning at the sensation. Lazy, with nothing to do but just feel the way Bucky feels against him surrounded by her squeezing and gripping him.

It’s an unrelenting assault, this dragging pressure that goes up and down his body with no relief. Steve starts spasming like a fucking crazy person, dick throbbing pre-climax, until it suddenly _hits_ and goes gushing down the underside of his dick, cascading over Bucky like a waterfall but with nowhere to escape to thanks to the latex keeping it from dispersing. Enough heads down toward his feet that he won’t drown, but it never really _leaves_. It can’t. It has nowhere to go.

By the end of the night Steve fills that condom almost full, and Bucky nearly passes out half a dozen times trying to survive it.


	44. In which pre-serum steve winds up trapped in bucky's balls pt 3

The next two or so hours Steve spends in his prison, he at least has room to breathe and move. Everything that’d been in there with him wound up getting expelled during a wet dream, and it left behind only a quiet sort of peace - just the sound of breathing, the steady pulse of a heartbeat all around him, and the occasional gentle sway as Bucky moved against the mattress beneath him.

Inevitably, semen started to trickle back in again. Just the weight of Steve being in there seems to be enough to get Bucky hard off and on throughout the day, no matter how still he tries to be or how little stimulation he tries to provide. He’s heavier and thicker than Bucky’s sperm, so he’s a persistent source of feeling that can’t really be dismissed.

His room’s about half full again when things start to shift, a load groan rumbling through the flesh around him before it all goes topsy-turvy again, he’s sent tumbling end over end and splashing through warm sperm as Bucky rolls over onto his back.

A few seconds later, he feels the entire room begin to slowly bounce, rocking and tossing him softly against one wall and then the other as Bucky gently plays with his balls inside his underwear.

“Mornin’ sweetheart,” he hears, loud as thunder, clear as day even though the flesh separating them. “God, you feel so good in there. Gave me real good dreams last night.”

In answer, Steve slaps his palm against the wall hoping to convey his frustration. All it earns is another _mmm_ sound, followed by a quick gush of fresh hot wet into the room with him.

“Guessing that’s you wanting me to come you out, huh,” the voice drawls, and as he speaks the room shakes again - quick jolts, Steve doesn’t know the cause, but it’s Bucky lifting his hips so he can shove his boxer briefs all the way down. It’s easier to fondle himself that way, rolling his sack with the fingers of his left hand while his right, gently wraps around his already hard cock. He’s in no hurry, though, and his grip on himself is light, teasing, gently stroking. Drawing it out.

“Must want me to come so bad. I gotta be honest, Stevie, this is the hottest god damn thing I’ve ever felt,” he says, and the voice has taken on a breathless quality to it. The room stops squishing and bouncing and moving for a second as Bucky’s left hand falls away, curling under his head so he can stare down the length of his body at his privates, imagining what it must look like for Steve in there.

His right hand starts at a soft rhythm, and as it strokes up the shaft his balls lift a little. When it strokes back down again they drop. At the end of every one of these, Steve’s little body gets thrown or bounced one direction or the other, sending a zinging pleasure through his sack. 

“I don’t just mean the fact that you make me come so hard, either,” He murmurs, his hand picking up the pace a little. “I mean you feel good _all damn day._ Working, taking a piss, whatever, I can feel you in there. It’s kinda nice, you know, knowing you’re that close, knowing you’re safe, keeping you with me. I wanna leave you in there so bad.”

The shaking slows again as Bucky forces himself to take it easy, but Steve’s prison doesn’t stop filling. The longer Bucky draws it out, the harder he gets, the heavier his sack swells with the build-up of semen. It’s up to Steve’s shoulders already, and he has to palm at the walls to stay afloat - inadvertently making the whole thing feel better. 

“So I’m thinking… how ‘bout one more day, huh? You got plenty to eat in there I bet, you got nothing else to do, you could keep me company. Kinda feels fair, right? I’m working, you’re making me feel good while I work. _Fuck_ , sweetheart,” He murmurs, and Steve’s not sure whether or not he’s talking to himself now or he’s asking for an answer. Not much he can do to give one, and the more Bucky talks to himself the quicker the room around him shakes and bounces - overhead, the flap that lead him here in the first place shutters open and then closed again, letting some of the fluid out. It’s too quick for Steve to grab onto this time, but now that he knows where to look…

“How about you let me come right now, but I don’t let you out just yet. God, it just feels so fucking _good_ , I love you in there. I really do.” The _mmm_ sound Bucky’s making absently in the back of his throat gets louder, gets more, and Steve sees the flap overhead open up to let out a little more precum. He surges forward, grabbing at it with both hands as it tries to shutter closed. It catches his wrists, but he’s not strong enough to force it open. The fact that he’s trying, though, rips a loud and throaty _groan_ from the body around him. After that, Bucky’s hand starts positively _flying_ over himself, rigorously shaking his entire package and dislodging Steve entirely. He goes slamming back onto the floor of Bucky’s nuts, swallowing down come that bounces around him, sloshes over him, threatens to drown him - the entire time he’s ping-ponged off the walls he’s sending hot, sharp peaks of pleasure straight through Bucky’s entire pelvis.

“God, fuck yeah sweetheart, just - stay in my balls for me, okay? I’m gonna come, but I- I’ll get you out later on tonight, alright, don’t come out, just lemme- just lemme come- _tss-_ ” and on instinct alone, Bucky shoots his left hand down to grab and squeeze at his balls. The ceiling above Steve crumples a little, blocking access to his escape hatch, right before orgasm _slams_ intensely into the cock above him.

Bucky’s balls squeeze up so tight and so hard as they shoot, they practically squeeze the life out of Steve. For a moment there’s no air, there’s no breathing room, there’s just swirling chaos as load after load shoots out of the room around him, gripping fingers keeping him from shooting out with it.

The sound Bucky makes above him is probably just a stuttering, long, languid moan to anyone else’s ears, but to him it’s all-consuming and bordering on deafening. He jerks himself through it rough and fast and needy, peak after peak slamming into him as he shoots hotly over his own chest.

It slows down eventually. Calms down. Eases off - but not completely. Little hot zings of aftershock keep coming from his testicles, and when he can finally crack his eyes open to search his come for Steve, Steve’s not in it.

He moans again softly, gently releasing his balls and bouncing them a little to confirm - yeah, still in there.

“God, sweetheart, thank you so much. I knew you’d wanna make me feel good. Treat me real nice all day, alright? Then tonight we’ll get you out.”


	45. Tiny Natasha and Clint - Shoving her down his underwear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> Smuggling someone out of wherever by shrinking them and putting them "somewhere secure" -- bitty (bonus for them being stuck longer than planned, either due to circumstances genuinely out of the giant's control, or just because the giant realized that this feels REALLY GOOD and when will they get the opportunity again?)

“Shit, sorry sweetheart–” Clint says, and that’s all the warning he gives before a massive hand slams down onto the table behind him, palm facing Clint’s chest, to sweep Natasha toward the edge of the table. For a wild second she thinks he’s going to swat her clean off of it, but then when she gets about a foot from the edge she can see over it to where his other hand’s got a thumb hooked in his waistband, boxers and tac bottoms pulled out three or four inches to catch her in his underwear. 

She rolls down cotton briefs end over end until she winds up flat on her back staring forward and a dick and balls larger than her in every aspect, and then the waistband over her head snaps closed, sealing her into darkness.

“I don’t have any pockets on this outfit,” She hears him mutter under his breath, “And we got company.”

They’ve been under cover for three weeks, mostly _Clint_ since the accident, and he can’t be seen with her - god only knows what the group he’s infiltrating would do with her if they found out. 

She knows this _logically_ , it’s just when she’s smashed chest-first into the head of her partner’s soft cock it’s a little hard to be logical.

“Gentlemen,” she hears him greet - the sound rumbles almost through her stomach, a strange distortion thanks to her size and her proximity. 

“Young blood, walk with me,” comes the deep baritone of the man Natasha knows to be in charge. 

And Clint obliges. It shakes up Natasha’s entire world, because every thundering step jiggles the malleable flesh above her. It jostles her so hard that she gives in and reaches out, wrapping her arms around the head of Clint’s dick to keep from being swept under the far worse place below. She can’t hear any indication of a falter in his voice or in his step, but it’s _impossible_ to miss the way his cock twitches a little at the feeling.

They pick up the pace, from a slow amble to brisk, and Natasha has to cling a little more tightly. The flesh she’s hugging gets a little warmer and, she realizes, a little thicker too - filling out just slightly with blood, lifting a little from where it’d been resting limp atop his balls. This subtle change isn’t so subtle to her, because it means his slit lifts up and presses directly into her face head-on, soft and clean but relentless thanks to the wall of unforgiving material behind her. 

She shakes her head a little, frustrated, trying to turn her face away from a slit that almost seems bound and determined to make out with her. She lifts up both her hands to _push_ at the head of Clint’s dick, trying to steer it away from her face - it works, but not necessarily the way she intended. Another twitch, this time a heartier throb, and it swells against her, grinding up her face as hard as it can before it has to start curving up, climbing up her body like a vine and dragging her with it a little until she’s pinned just beneath the head against the wall at her back.

This whole process takes nearly twenty minutes, and then she notices that the jiggling, bouncing, shaking has stopped and they’re standing still. She can hear the sound of loud conversation, of laughter, of clinking glasses. 

“ За здоровье,” someone calls, and she hears Clint echo it back followed by the clinking of two glasses together in a toast.

They’re drinking. He’s having a drink, presumably in a bar, with a mob boss while Natasha sits here accidentally stimulating his dick and getting smushed by his erection.

Clint, for his part, knows that he _should_ do something about it. He could make an excuse, head to the restroom, pull her out and figure out an alternative plan - maybe store her somewhere safe there until it’s time to leave.

…but she doesn’t know that, does she?

And he wouldn’t want to arouse any suspicion.

…and she feels kinda nice down there anyway, sort of like a little finger rubbing at his dick while he drinks. Gently stroking and stimulating and writing against his sweet spot. It’s not gonna hurt anyone if he keeps her in there a while longer. When’s he ever gonna have the chance to shove an entire god damn person down his underwear, let alone _Natasha_? 

The more shots he takes the hotter he thinks it is, and the more tempted he is to wrap his palm around himself over his pants and start massaging.

…Or maybe get one of the girls eyeing him to come sit in his lap for a little while.


	46. Steve slamming his dick on Tiny Bucky repeatedly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Giant Steve repeatedly slamming his dick on the table, with the tiny underneath it, as his dick slowly gets harder and harder with the stimulation underneath

Ever since this whole thing started, Steve’s been finding stranger and stranger things that turn him on. It’s not hard to track it back to root cause, to having been something small that became something big, two decades of being pushed around and the balls-deep satisfaction of being the one doing the pushing - without actually hurting anyone.

Mostly, anyway.

Just the little thing on his kitchen table, who he tries out something new on almost daily. Today he’d been walking naked through the apartment, spotted the little guy, and turned over in his head not for the first time that even his _cock_ is better than him, which lead him to meandering over and plucking Bucky up to place him at the edge of the table. 

It isn’t the first time Bucky’s been interrupted from whatever he’d been doing for Steve’s personal enjoyment, and it’s far from the first time he’s wound up flat on his back staring up at the underside of his fat cock, though usually it’s not flaccid at the start. He’s expecting the usual litany of dirty talk Steve murmurs that gets him hard as hell, but this time there’s nothing of the sort. There’s just his soft dick, two fingers wrapped around the base of it, and then the slow lift followed by a sudden _drop_ down onto him.

It’s heavy, it’s as big as he is, so it’s sort of like a person falling and landing on top of him from a few feet up. Nothing the serum in his blood can’t handle, barely even hurts, it’s just _unexpected_. Steve lifts it off of him with an upward little flick of his wrist, then slaps it a little more forcefully down. That one stings a bit, like the slapping of skin on skin. 

These are slow, experimental things. 

At first.

Bucky hears a curious sounding _mm_ from Steve’s rumbling chest, sees the cock above him plump up a little bit, and then things get more aggressive. Rather than just a casual tap with three or four seconds’ pause, Steve starts up a regular rhythm - a _tap... tap... tap... tap.._ just hard enough to sting, just hard enough to send a bolt of heat down Steve’s spine at the feeling. 

He likes it. He likes looking down from his full height, staring straight down his chest at the table, at his half-hard dick in his hands, lifting it up to see the breathless thing underneath it and then bringing his dick back down onto it in a little jerk. He likes the feeling of the thing under him reacting to it, the way it cushions his cock as it lands, the little twinge of pleasure at each slap.

Mostly, he likes the feeling of _power_ he’s getting from it, and as a new unfurling of heat takes up root in his balls he goes faster, a rhythmic _thud, thud, thud, thud, thud_ that becomes punctuated by breathless little noises that escape his chest, a panting heat that matches the spikes of pleasure he’s getting from this. 

He’s fully hard now, and Bucky stares up as he peels his dick off again just to wrap his fist entirely around it and rub out a few jerks, then stroke his hand back down to the base, grip it with his forefinger and thumb, and _whack_ down his erection at full-force like a battering ram. _These_ start to hurt; it’s twice as big now, twice as thick around, heavier with blood, and Steve’s jerking it down onto him like a hammer, absolutely battering him with the underside of his cock.

He breaks up every second or third _thud_ to jack three or four times, then circles back down to _whack, whack, whack_ again. Minutes of this pass, a flawless rhythm of Steve jerking and smacking him with his cock, little moans escaping his throat until finally the last brutal _thud_ earns an, “Oh, fuck-”

He steps back just an inch so he can furiously fuck his fist, filthily jerking it and aiming it down at Bucky’s red, angry skin. A long, low, needy moan escapes Steve right before he _comes_ , thick gobs of white hot semen all over Bucky on the table, stroking himself through his orgasm with satisfaction in his voice like utter relief.


	47. Voyeur!Steve gets safely vored by an unaware Bucky.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> giantesskisses asked:  
> Voyeur!Steve gets safely vored by an unaware Bucky.

He’s got the Pym particles, a custom suit, he’s got the whole damn thing planned out. It’s perfect, it’s safe beyond all measure. Two backup fail-safe options just on the off chance that for whatever reason he can’t zap himself out of it once he’s done.

He sure as shit can’t tell Bucky, because he’d never agree to do it in a million years - no matter how many back-up plans he had. Besides, this... thing he’s got is a little weird, a little personal, he’s a little ashamed of it.

It’s just... Bucky’s got perfect lips, perfect teeth, a plush pink tongue, and every time Steve sees him toss something into his mouth and start crunching it up he stares a little too hard and gets a little too hot in his face.

He plants himself inside of Bucky’s favorite brand of chips while Bucky’s away at the gym, because he _knows_ the guy comes back with a ravenous hunger and too impatient to cook.

He’s beyond small. The bag he’s in is a cathedral. The chip he’s on is nearly the size of the floor plan in his old apartment. If he’s even remotely noticeable at all, it’s as a fleck of seasoning at best.

Sure enough, right on the mark, he can hear the thunder that probably comes at the end of the world. A sound so loud and so deep his eardrums can’t properly perceive it. It’s followed by a rush of air, and then his eyes lift up to the metallic paper walls above him. One of them bends in with a sound so loud it’s like standing at the bottom of Niagara falls. Four more fresh dents appear in the walls around him, then _crumple_ the ceiling in a way that actually makes his heart rate spike.

It’s like demolition. It’s like watching a skyscraper get quarantined and then ritually exploded, thousands of tons of mass falling in on itself - just to stop abruptly because Bucky’s stopped squeezing his fingers shut.

Feeling the movement is different in here. The bag itself is presumably soaring through space, but it almost has its own gravity at this point. What he’s got to look out for is the way the chips rearrange themselves - tectonic plates shifting, the one he’s on suddenly _veering down_ sharply and another slicing across it. He watches over his shoulder as a chip a hundred or more times bigger than him just _cracks_ in half like nothing, sending debris exploding that is _also_ bigger than him. 

He’s got to grip on tight to the imperfections in his chip as it tilts up nearly vertically, just shy of a 90 degree angle. It’s at the top of the bag, at least, so he won’t be buried.

The divots disappear with that same rushing, deafening white-noise, and then above him the heavens open up. Where there once was darkness, now a slowly widening gaping light streaming in, blocked in the middle by a god-like face larger than any moon in the night sky. Bucky’s face blown up times a million, every detail enhanced from his bright blue searching eyes to the little chapped wrinkles in his lips.

He stares straight down at Steve, unblinking. He can actually _see_ Bucky focus on him, the pupil of his eye lined up with Steve’s like they’re making direct eye contact.

Except there’s no flicker of recognition. Not even a beat of pause. Bucky’s lips are blocked from his view by an intruder into his space, a massive creature of flesh, skin-toned whirls of fingerprints that are the size of trenches.

He ears a little _thud_ when Bucky’s finger makes contact on the flat wall of his chip. Another slow-motion _thud_ when his thumb clamps down. Soft scratching of friction beneath his fingerprints. 

And then the movement - the sheer force he has to fight against as Bucky pulls his chip from the pile, the others catching and falling off, the combination of gravity and g-force thrusting him down so hard he has to cling with every ounce of strength he’s got. Like an angel or like God, Bucky peels him from the darkness and slowly into the light, an unfathomable blurry bright space that stretches on infinitely.

There’s no pause in his motion. Steve sees the top of the bag, the distant colors of furniture and walls too far away to comprehend - he can barely see to the end of his _chip_. His only real focal point for several miliseconds is that too-close too-big finger pulling them through space, until very abruptly a new landscape comes into view.

He keeps soaring toward it, heart racing, the knowledge that even if he started yelling now, even if he changed his mind, there’s not a thing slowing down Bucky guiding that chip toward stretching, parted lips. He passes over building-sized teeth, and Bucky steers him toward his back molars. 

Passing into Bucky’s mouth is like going through a portal - from bright and airy to dark and humid, the feeling of exhaled breath surrounding him even without Bucky actively breathing, muggy and oppressive. 

He glances over his shoulder toward the exit, and he sees the vacancy of freedom through the slowly closing frame of teeth and gums and lips.

Above him, those molars descend unstoppably. They’re irregular and uneven, and Steve finds himself flat on his back staring up as his largest tooth comes down around him, the highest peaking ridges slamming down in sequential _cracks_ to his left, to his right, grinding the chip there into dust before he even finishes biting down. 

And he _does_ finish biting, but Steve’s made himself so small that even with his teeth really and properly shut they don’t crush him into nothing. He has one second to experience being pinned between upper and lower molar, the platform he’d been on cracked beyond repair, the enamel grinders around him merciless.

They part again, but _barely_. Bucky’s mouth doesn’t completely open, so no new light streams in. Just a sudden wash of saliva, the shifting of new chip _over top_ of him, and then another pulverizing crunch that gnashes the chip into a clump that sticks him to the bottom tooth. He’s still trapped there when he hears the deep, guttural vacuum of a swallow that takes place off to his left, the surge of suction that follows it - it gently pulls at his prison, but it doesn’t dislodge him.

The teeth part more widely, and Steve sees in slow-motion the oncoming of a new predator. The tongue he always thought of as soft and plush becomes a tidal wave of probing muscle, the tip of it _slamming_ down into him and grinding him back and forth against the surface of Bucky’s molar. It’s wet, there are long strings of saliva that cascade off of it as it moves, working and shoving Steve out of his tiny divot. 

He manages to dislodge himself from the remnants of his chip platform, winds up rolling end over end off of the tooth and to the floor beneath him - the slick, slippery underside of a tongue and the place it meets gums.

Seemingly satisfied, the tongue moves to drop heavily onto him, shrouding him in heat and darkness, trapping him beneath it so that he can only barely see the influx of light from Bucky’s parting lips. Another chip passes through them, and this time Bucky’s mouth closes completely before he chews - the tongue thrusts the chip up with great force into the roof of his mouth, cracking it and breaking it at the center so saliva and gentle guidance steer it in uneven halves toward teeth on either side.

Steve uses this freedom to thrust himself forward, clearing great distance toward the back of Bucky’s front teeth. If he stays beneath the tongue he’ll wind up trapped there. 

He launches himself as high as he can, barely managing to catch onto the ledge of Bucky’s lower front tooth. They don’t line up flush with the upper front teeth, so he thinks there shouldn’t be any grinding or swallowing to end him so soon if he takes up an audience view there.

What he’s not counting on is the force of the swallow, the way it drags him backward, the way he lands plastered to the bottom of the tip of Bucky’s tongue. 

Lips part slow, and he can hear the sound of the skin unsticking, tacky with saliva. He can hear the almost velcro-like sound of the middle of Bucky’s tongue peeling away from the roof of his mouth, and then he’s soaring through the air toward the light again - then _down_ as Bucky licks his lips. He peels Steve off on accident by the way he keeps his lips closed for it, the sheer force and weight of his tongue pushing Steve down into one of the little divots in Bucky’s lower lip and sealing him there with sticky, glue-like saliva.

He’s stuck there, caught in the folds, arms outstretched and legs straight down. Staring up grants him only a limited view - Bucky’s upper lip stretching out in either direction like sprawling lawn, the very tip of his nose, maybe the edge of a high cheekbone, and _nothing else_. Not even a chance at eyes, because he’s just too god damn small to see over the curvature of Bucky’s face. It’s disorienting and a little overwhelming to know that he’s beneath even the ability to make one-sided eye contact.

But the experience isn’t over, and Steve watches another chip pass over his head like a UFO, soaring slow motion into the cavern behind him.

Lips close, meaning Bucky’s top lip presses down onto his bottom. As it descends, he sees every uneven bit of texture, every plump piece, every crumb still caught and still larger than him. He sees it coming down on him unrelentingly, sealing together on his left and his right until finally it seals _him_ too.

He’s caught between upper and lower lip, and the upper one grinds back and forth over him while Bucky chews, dragging dry skin and heavy weight left and then right. 

The tongue doesn’t come back.

Two or three more chips pass before there’s a break between them, and something new arrives in his sphere of vision.

A bright pink mound, a smoothed over surface, shiny and as thick as the lip he’s on.

It touches down a hundred yards to the right, landing with a sticky, deafening thud. Then it begins to _drag_ , passing at great speed and clearing too much distance toward him.

It passes over his entire being, and he recognizes the smell and the taste instantly. It’s _chapstick_ , and Bucky coasts it back and forth, sealing him in place with two coats.

He didn’t account for _this_ particular scenario when he made his backup plans. He’s trapped, unseen and known, on Bucky’s lower lip.


	48. Tiny Cas has to cling to Dean's dick or else fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny having to cling to a dick or else fall, as the giant walks around in the nude (or maybe with just a long shirt so nobody sees, up to you!) -- bitty

Even before today, Dean’s made it a habit to walk around the bunker in his robe. It’s not a surprise to Sam to see him prowling the place in it, so he doesn’t have a singular reason to think twice - let alone investigate the contents inside of it. It’s made of thick material that muffles all sound, but Castiel largely gave up yelling after the first fifteen minutes.

The only warning he got before this particular exercise was a smirk, a green-eyed glint, and a cheerful, “Better hold on tight, Wingless.”

The very-naked Winchester lowered him down, soaring past pecs and stomach and waist to his flaccid cock, hanging mostly limp, soft, shower-fresh. Enormous, calloused fingers pushed his chest into the underside of it, his head right beneath _its_ head, and with it being soft it’s almost exactly Castiel’s size if not a little smaller.

That hand detached too quickly, and it became instinct to wrap his arms and legs around it tightly to keep from plummeting headfirst to the floor below - without his grace or angelic strength, it’s questionable whether or not he’d survive the fall.

He thought this was a joke at first, and his annoyed yell of, “Dean, this isn’t funny-” went entirely unacknowledged as Dean took his first step. It booms through the hunter’s leg, impact juggling up his thigh and then gently to his cock, barely shaking and bouncing the thing upon which Cas is clinging for dear life. His arms and legs grip on more tightly, clamping down in a vice around a dick that twitches beneath it.

The second step is much the same, gently jostling him from the impact on the other side.

These steps were experimental, but judging by the slow movement of blood southward Dean is pleased by his results. 

He moves more quickly and with less care toward his closet, bouncing Cas to and fro in minute little jiggles as he goes. His robe gets draped on over his arms, gently cinched at the waist and doing absolutely nothing to aid Castiel in this endeavor. 

It seems like the farther Dean walks, the harder he has to grip Dean’s cock to keep from falling. The harder he grips, the better the pressure feels to Dean - almost like a hand softly squeezing him. He hums his approval, then sets out half-hard through the bunker toward the kitchen to make coffee.

By the time it’s finished brewing, Dean’s gone from six to midnight - fully erect and curving up toward his belly instead of town toward the floor. This is good and bad - on the one hand, the curve of it takes some of the strain off of Castiel’s arms, and he much prefers _not_ having to stare straight down at a drop toward the floor. On the other, as it’s gotten harder it’s also gotten bigger, longer, filling with blood to the point that his arms no longer fully reach around it.

The sheer amount of _work_ it takes to hang on, to scramble up those few centimeters he winds up dropping every couple of steps from the impact, it’s doing _wonderful_ things to Dean who enjoys his casual slow hand-job for the rest of his morning routine.

* * *

alternative take:

Cas had been stranded on the bathroom counter for a while until one of the brothers passed by. Dean settled in front of the mirror, naked as the day he was born, leaning forward to floss into it and more or less ignoring the tiny angel trying to flag him down. He’s got a busy day, he’s got stuff to focus on, whatever Cas’s problem is can wait until after the hunt.

Castiel, as he is wont to do, gets impatient with Dean and leans forward the sparse two or three inch gap between himself and Dean’s stomach to angrily pound his tiny fists - only to have Dean pull back just a half an inch on accident. Castiel overbalances, loses his footing, and plummets - only catching himself on the head of Dean’s heavy cock, gripping onto it for dear life.

This _does_ get Dean’s attention for just a brief moment, and he glances down with floss in his teeth to see what it is - just to notice a wide-eyed angel staring up at him and straddling the ridge of his head to keep from falling.

“Huh,” Dean says, then lifts his eyes back to flossing. “I’ll get you off in a minute, just hold your horses.”

And he finishes flossing.

And brushing his teeth.

And fixing his hair.

And then his entire body turns, irreverent to the shockwaves it puts Castiel through, and he hears only, “Sorry man, I’m late, no time. Better hang on.”

He starts walking those bow-legged steps toward his room, heedless of the movement and without stopping to pluck Castiel off his cock. Why bother? It feels kinda nice.


	49. Steve absently tucks Tiny Bucky into his underwear after jerking off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> The tiny agreed to be used as a toy. They did NOT agree to be tucked away in the giant's underwear when the event was over, but that's what happened anyway.

Steve’s got some kind of control fetish, Bucky thinks - or maybe it’s just all those developmental years being pushed around for being small, now that he’s bigger than Bucky in every sense of the word it gives him a subconscious spike of arousal to do the same. Bucky’s more than happy to give him what he wants, though, and he doesn’t have any real problems being treated like a sex toy or a doll for the purposes of play - they have a safe word, Steve respects it, and there’s enough love and trust that he’s willing to vibrate and squirm and lick his partner through an intense orgasm.

Which he does, several times - Steve’s getting off on it with increasing frequency, he’s savoring new and subtle ways to treat Bucky like a little cock toy, and it feels like his orgasms have been getting better, bigger, longer since they started doing this.

For example, the one he just gave Steve while Steve had him in his fist along with his cock, jacking himself off furiously with the knowledge that Bucky’s serum leaves him practically indestructible so Steve’s free to be as rough as he wants as long as it feels good on his cock. He comes with a choked sound, shooting hot all over his own stomach, milking himself through it by grinding Bucky into his sweet spot for several minutes while Bucky obligingly rubs and licks it, sending shivers up Steve’s spine.

But then the hand stills, and Steve sighs out a breathy sigh, and he tucks himself back into his boxer briefs, snapping the waistband shut.

Actually, to be more specific, he tucks both his _dick_ and his _toy_ into his boxer briefs seemingly without a second thought, pulling them up snug against his body while he stands to walk to the bathroom. Bucky’s never been in here before, almost can’t fathom what’s happening at first - a pair of heavy balls at his back, flacid cock pinning him to them, neck bent a little against the fabric of the underwear creating a sort of hammock behind his head, and the entire assembly jiggling back and forth as thunderous footsteps sound on either side of him.

Occasionally Steve’s cock will pulse a little with pleasant aftershocks, and at one point he even reaches down to give his balls - and Bucky - a little jostle and grope and itch with his hand.

Then the sound of running water, more thunderous footsteps, a shift in gravity, and then what light his white boxers let in suddenly being obscured with darkness, getting tighter, going black.

A zipper going up, locking him almost immovably in place.


	50. Natasha and Tiny Maria Hill - unaware grinding into a pillow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> Prompt: (f/f) Casually, slowly grinding down on a tiny pinned underneath while laying face down on a bed, perhaps with a pillow for some added resistance? Maybe not even fully paying attention, just shifting and enjoying the sensation of something rubbing against her sensitive spots. -- bitty

The way Natasha likes to sleep (when she’s got the security and the comfort to choose how she does so) is perhaps a little unusual. She sleeps with at least one arm under her pillow, she sleeps with a thicker, firmer pillow between her thighs, and- perhaps most notably- she sleeps naked. 

Sometimes she’ll roll from her side to her stomach in her sleep. This results in her thigh pillow sort of spreading her legs a little, getting tucked up under her belly and pressing rather nicely into everything from the top of her pelvis down her sex and between her thighs.

When she was younger, it used to give her great dreams. She’d wake up from them and just lazily hump into the pillow, grinding both her sex and her pelvis into it - something about the push against her outer pelvic wall and the contraction of her muscles engaged nerves probably around her g-spot, and she could even bring herself to orgasm through a steadily rougher series of humps and grinds against it.

It hasn’t happened in a while - too much stress, perhaps - but she wakes up this time with her clit throbbing a little and (she thinks) the unusually perfect formation of a rumple in her pillow to rub it against.

In all actuality, what she’s grinding her clit and pelvic mound into is a pinned, struggling Maria Hill.

It’s her own fault, really. The intention had been to slip in, to take notes, to confirm Natasha’s status and try to glean information on what she’d been working on for Fury, but an unlucky series of circumstances lead to her falling from the safety of her window ledge and rolling down the steep grade of a mattress until - well - some tossing and turning on Black Widow’s part.

She’d landed initially on the thigh pillow between her legs, right beneath her pert ass and a smooth, muscular thigh on each side. Before she could hop down and head for feet, Natasha’s body lifted, moved back, and _slammed_ down like a mouse trap.

Some more rolling, chaos too hard to perceive as a thigh shifted on the left and on the right, clamping down more tightly on the pillow between them and then shuffling down so that it pressed nicely against her pubic bone and waist

What Hill sees is this: directly above her face is smooth pale skin. Lifting her eyes up coasts along that skin until several feet away she can see a belly button. Tipping her eyes down, a _much_ closer patch of very neatly trimmed pubic hair, leading to the round clitoral hood that settles on her breasts, the clit itself around sternum, labia straddling her on either side, and she can feel wet heat soaking into her thighs and knees likely from Natasha’s entrance.

Her arms are pinned to her sides.

She lays here, still, for about ten minutes trying to consider how to extract herself. She starts by wriggling her shoulders side to side, twisting her body from left to right in order to work out one of her arms - except it means her chest gently stimulates the clit pressing down on it, and it earns her a sleepy, rumbling hum from all around her.

Then the hips lift up a little, maybe just a half centimeter-

-she tries to lift her arms-

-and then they _push_ down harder than before, grinding her into pillow, shoving pelvis into her face and clit into her chest. That’s not the end of the sequence - from there, thighs and glutes tighten to tilt that pelvis _up,_ dragging clit from chest up over her face. She hovers there, muscles tense and throbbing while Maria splutters against damn flesh pushing into her mouth, her nose, head shaking back and forth in a desperate bid for oxygen.

Another sleepy _mmm_ from above, and then the pelvis fluidly angles _down_ again, roughly grinding almost hard enough to crack a rib as it passes over her chest, her waist, her legs, and hard muscles from the waist above her grind in for the pressure.

Natasha’s lips part as wakefulness slowly slips in. She keeps her eyes closed, though, and slips her arms under the pillow beneath her head, pleased and content and horny.

She spreads her legs a little more, scooping up as much of her pillow between them as she can before closing them again and _grinding_ into it. 

Hill’s practically curved now from the unrelenting firmness of memory foam, spine arched and tits perked up. Above her, she sees that flat, wide wall of muscle expand and contract, tightening and tensing and engaging, and then it relaxes and _grinds_ up again, tilting to deliberately pass clit over her body for the friction. It’s soaking wet this time, though, smearing slickness over her entire body and pausing once again at the top of her hump with her clit on Maria’s face. When she doesn’t get that spluttered reaction, that twinge of pleasure from Maria shaking her head back and forth, she sort of _rocks_ her hips a little harder into it. Little micro-humps with her clit grinding up and down, and up and down, and up and down.

It’s _good_ , and Natasha moans properly before releasing a breathless exhale and lowering her hips back down.

So far, it’s all been slow and sleepy and deliberate.

It stays like that another twenty minutes. Natasha edges herself on her pillow, slowly hauling her body up and down it just a sparse three or four inches, soaking the fabric. 

It doesn’t get faster, only harder. More intense with the way she pushes her entire pelvic area into her pillow, more intense as she once again spreads her legs a little farther to cover maximum surface area on her sex. It peaks at the top of a hump and she _locks_ there, pushing, pushing, pushing and feeling something absolutely _wonderful_ tickling her clit that finally sends her over the edge, spasming and quickly thrusting her hips back and then down again twice more, catching the orgasm and dragging it out with ruthless humps.

She relaxes her body slowly, bit by bit, thighs going soft around the pillow, labia dragging its way back down again, until finally she’s still. Comfortable. Extremely satisfied.

And still a little sleepy.

It’s her day off, she’ll clean up later. In the meantime, she dozes off again in and out of sleep, occasionally humping the pillow between her legs for the nice feeling.


	51. Tiny Natasha and Clint Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> I know it's been a while, but I would appreciate a continuation of that nat/Clint post where Clint was undercover in the mafia :) 💙Me

It takes about four drinks for Clint to start thinking almost entirely with his dick. He’s going a little crazy with it, actually; Natasha’s been rubbing at his slit and hugging his dick and wriggling around along the sweet spot on the underside. Top that off with the fact that there are a pair of perfectly round breasts literally right in front of him from a girl called Candi that’s clearly angling for something and...

A man can really only take so much.

“She likes you,” Stefan says, “Go ahead, keep him warm.”

“Oh, that’s not--” necessary, he starts to say, but he doesn’t even get the last word out before Candi straddles his lap. Most of her weight is on his thighs, sure, but there’s no denying that her crotch is pressed right up against his.

There’s also no denying she’s not wearing any underwear, and the skirt she’s got on rides up as she settles into place. She wraps her arm around his shoulders, presses her chest against his, and says, “Don’t worry young blood, I’ll make sure you’re comfortable.”

At this point if he refuses it’s gonna be like spitting in both of their faces. All he can manage is a breathy laugh, and his hands clamp down on her hips to either keep her from grinding forward or keep her from scooting back, he’s not too sure.

Either way, her pussy’s perfectly lined up over his erection, Natasha’s flush in between, and god does she start squirming on him. He bites his tongue to swallow down the noises he wants to make, and he feels hard pulse after hard pulse roll through his cock as it takes up a mind of its own trying to make it inside Candi somehow.

Candi rolls her hips deliberately, dragging her pussy up and then back down the length of his shaft -- inadvertently dragging Natasha up and down it with her -- and he can’t bite back the low noise he makes that time.

“Oh, you’re so sweet,” Candi says, clearly flattered because she assumes all it’s taking is her doing a little grinding. “Just wait, my love, and you’ll see.”

“See what?” he croaks, and she only smiles coyly before dragging his hand up to place it deliberately on her breast. He swallows hard, hand moving automatically to gently squeeze and massage her tit. He gently hefts the weight of it, rolls it in his palm, and he can feel the first tiny damp patch starting up from precum gathering at the tip of his dick.

Natasha is not having a good time.

She was already feeling a little claustrophobic, being pinned between the underside of Clint’s dick and the unforgiving material of his underwear and pants. There wasn’t enough room above or below her to shift around, no real repositioning any way that would help, and to top it off Clint just keeps twitching, gently shoving her back-first into his underwear as hot throbs of blood and arousal pulse against her.

She can barely hear what any of them are saying anymore, but she sure as hell feels something happening.

A new weight presses down on her from above, enormous and all-encompassing. It’s hot, it’s heavy, and it grinds Natasha face-first into the malleable skin of Clint’s dick. Velvet wrapped steel, now complete with a couple hundred pounds of pressure forcing her against the nerves and just getting worse every time one of those throbs runs through him. She can barely breathe, she’s being crushed straight into his erection, her chest barely manages to rise and fall sandwiched in between these two forces.

And then the hip-rolling starts. That inescapable force gripping her against Clint’s cock shoves her up, dragging her a couple inches until her face hits the ridge of Clint’s cock head. It pulses in pleasure, and then she’s shoved back down again to his sweet spot. 

The ceiling of fabric above her is starting to get wet. She can feel it in her hair and along her entire back, new damp humidity soaking in, and panic is starting to follow it. There is no escape, nowhere to go, and as hard as Clint’s throbbing beneath her she’s not sure this is gonna stop any time soon. He’s getting off on it, the bastard, and he doesn’t even know he’s slowly smothering her with his dick.

“Would you like me to ride you?” Candi offers, like it’s nothing at all.

Clint’s pupils blow wide and black, alcohol courses through him, he thinks about how good Natasha feels squirming against him and then he thinks about shoving that deep into Candi’s tight, wet pussy, and--

“Fuck yes I would.”


	52. Tiny Natasha and Clint Part 3

Candi hums her approval, pulling Clint’s other hand up to place it on her chest. From behind her, Stefan clears his throat to say, “I’m going to give you the night. We’ll meet first thing, yeah?”  
He’s gone without any further to-do, and the moment the door shuts behind him Candi pulls her shirt off up over her head. It lands on the booth beside him somewhere, forgotten in favor of unclasping her bra next. Her breasts are soft, perky, a perfect handful that he can’t help but reach up and begin to fondle. He rolls them beneath his palms, thumbs her nipples, kneads and plays with them in ways that shoot straight down to his cock -- and the little thing squirming around on it, slowly driving him crazy.

Clint’s hips begin to rock subtly, just barely an inch or two, rubbing into the welcoming and tempting heat of Candi’s folds. He plays with her tits, getting lost in the sight and the feeling while the thing in his pants plays with him. 

Natasha doesn’t know what’s happening, but she can guess. Beneath her under the gently malleable skin she’s smashed into, the hard line of Clint’s cock shifts. It’s minute to him, but it’s enormous to her, driving itself up and down her body, pressing into her front as it greedily rubs off on her. Fucking her into the steely wall behind her. Clint’s fucking humping her into concrete, it feels like. Unabashedly stimulating himself on her tiny body, and based on the pearling precum starting to slip down above her he’s enjoying it way more than just a lap dance.

It goes on for a while, this merciless rubbing. It’s like he’s trying to break her, up and down, up and down, up and down, throbbing every other little hump -- sometimes accompanied by a rumbling groan she can hear coming from the direction of his chest. The wall behind her is fucking soaking wet, making her skin slick and making it so that Clint’s cock slides a little bit rather than just barely tugging at her.

Abruptly, the weight above her disappears. She exhales utter relief, then sucks in big gulps of air that taste like salt and Clint’s dick. It’s nearly pitch black, so the sudden light above her is almost blinding. It’s Clint’s waistband being reeled back by a thumb, cool air flooding in, and a massive shape soon blots out the light.

Enormous, calloused fingers descend like a claw machine, and as intimidating as it looks her mind thinks, thank God, he’s finally pulling her out. 

Except he doesn’t just take her. That hand wraps around both her and his cock simultaneously, pulling them both out of the safety of his underwear and into the big, wide world. His fingers are pressed against her from shoulder to calf, molding her against that spot on his dick so tightly she’s got no chance of escape.

She can crane her neck up, though, to look past the crown of his cockhead and hundreds of yards up into the sky where Clint’s chin tilts down in slow motion to look at her. His pupils are enormous, even for this scale, and his lips are parted as ragged breaths pass in and out of them.

Something hits her head and she jerks before she realizes what it is -- a thick bead of precum pearling at the slit and cascading down until it slipped into her hair, and then onto her face. There is no change in Clint’s expression when he sees it, and in fact the hand around her grips a little tighter and begins to drag up -- then down -- then up again. Jacking off just a little with her in his fist.

What the fuck??

She doesn’t get the chance to ask.

His other hand looms into view, and it takes her a second to realize what he’s holding. A fleshy looking ring, descending toward her -- it’s a fucking condom. She starts kicking, writhing, struggling against him then, but all it does is inspire another hot bead of precum to slip down her front.

The condom eventually blocks out her view of Clint’s face, and semi-transparent latex lands on the tip a few feet above her. Deft fingers press on the rim and slowly but surely drag it down, down, down, until it finally hits the back of her shoulders. He rolls it down her entire body, his fingertips coming off of her back one by one to be replaced with tight, lubricated condom. 

He seals her in, and the condom holds her perfectly in place.

The world outside is blurry, like a shower door. Massive colors move around it, distorting and eventually blocking out the light.

“Oh god,” she manages finally, trying to press into Clint’s skin to shove herself down his dick. It twitches. “Clint-- please don’t fuck her-- Please don’t put it in her--”

Shadow descends onto the tip of Clint’s dick, and it just hovers there for a few seconds. 

And then it begins to slowly drop, swallowing inch after inch as it descends toward her.

It passes over her head, and immense pressure bears down on her shoulders, her back, her hips, her legs, her everything as it swallows both her and Clint’s dick whole. There’s a thunderous groan outside, a massive jerk and pulse on the fact cock she’s wrapped around, and a corresponding lockdown-knead of muscle and barely-giving flesh behind her. 

It’s pitch black, but she doesn’t need to see to know where she is. The living, undulating walls around her keep trying to milk her and Clint’s dick, squeezing and greedily pulling even as the descent stops when she bottoms out.

And then the reverse begins, ridges and muscle and pressure passing up, up, up along her back, bumpy in places and slick in others, releasing her calves, her hips, her shoulders -- but not her head, it stops there, she can only see downward with the light that streams through. She can only see the veins and skin of Clint’s shaft surrounded by plastic-looking condom.

Pressure descends again just as slow, swallowing her down and earning another groan. The muscle behind her squeezes, pushing all air out of her lungs. Slick passes down Clint’s cock head and begins to stream semi-constantly down into her face; she has to writhe and twist her head, try to get her arm in place to block it out so it doesn’t obstruct her airways. 

Clint’s dick pulses in response, and the ascent is much quicker this time.

She doesn’t get much of a reprieve; Candi’s pussy slams down this time, roughing impaling herself on Clint. 

And then she begins to bounce, never fully pulling off, just passing yards of muscle back and forth behind Natasha while the cock before her spasms and twitches rhythmically in time with it, basking in the pleasure it’s getting from how tight it all is, how hard Natasha’s struggling to survive, and how much he’s enjoying playing with Candi’s tits.

The faster Candi goes, the harder and more frequently Clint’s dick begins to jolt. Blood pounds quickly in the vein in front of her, bulging as the pressure builds and builds and builds in his pelvis the closer he gets to climax, and then she realizes -- finally realizes what the next part is going to be like. 

He’s gonna fucking drown her in runoff semen.

“Clint--” she yells, she begs, “Please don’t come. Clint, please, please, please don’t come. Please don’t come on me. Please don’t come, please don’t come on me--”

Outside is a rumbling groan and, as if to spite her, she can just make out a bassy, “Oh fuck, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come so fucking hard, don’t stop baby--”

She slams her fist into his vein, a desperate last ditch effort to communicate. It sparks, setting off the gasoline fire, the catalyst that triggers Clint’s orgasm. It gushes, floods with hot and wild jerks as Candi moves chaotically around him for it, and sheer fucking pleasure rolls through Clint’s dick. The first wave of semen mostly lands in the tip of the condom, but some escapes and begins flooding the front of her, trapped by the condom. She thrashes to try and avoid it, but it’s mid-orgasm for Clint and all it does is pull a louder, more desperate groan as his dick responds with enthusiastic approval. 

God, it feels so fucking good to him, the way she’s moving around while he comes. Ratcheting his orgasm up, dragging it out, letting it flood from him in sharp waves that cascade over her back again and again and again while Candi fucks him.


	53. Sirius and Tiny Harry pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> I saw you’d consider doing HP stuff! I was wondering if you’d considering doing Harry being shrunk and Sirius declaring he’s going to keep his tiny godson safe, by putting him somewhere he won’t get hurt. In his pants. OR if you’re not into that, maybe Ginny being a loving girlfriend keeps Harry close to her in her panties or bra somewhere she’ll be able to feel him at all times? Or both if you want! Love your work!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry is assumed to be over the age of consent.

Harry still has difficulty wrapping his head around the entire thing, looking back. It had been a flurry of commotion in Grimmauld place, he remembers standing in the center of vast, stretching hardwood with a half dozen people all around him shouting about who’s fault it was and what they were going to do about it. They didn’t pay much mind to Harry himself, flat on his back and staggered by the massive feet moving with little care around his tiny form.

All of the voices were too loud, Mrs. Weasley’s most of all, until massive fingers descended from the sky to pluck him up from the ground. He couldn’t tell, at first, who they belonged to - just that they were masculine, a bit calloused, and exceptionally deft. The lift felt like barreling into the sky on his broom, and he found himself walled in between gently curled fingers and a broad, warm chest.

“He’s my godson, I’m going to take care of him.”

Sirius has a tendency to bark with authority, and it seems to end the argument once and for all. He glares down any interlopers, and they trickle out one by one until only Sirius, Remus, and Dumbledore are left.

“Don’t worry, Harry, we’ll get you put right,” Sirius’s near deafening voice reassures him, peeling him slowly away from his chest. His face is absolutely massive; Remus and Dumbledore join him in leaning over a bit to observe him, positively blotting out the sky with their bodies. “Here you are, I’m going to put you somewhere you won’t get hurt while we figure this out.”

Harry isn’t sure what he expected, but it bloody wasn’t being lowered like this, looking down, and seeing Sirius pull open the waistband of his trousers and pants to create an opening. 

“Wait, what-” he yells, legs kicking, but Sirius doesn’t seem to notice or pay any attention. Neither Remus nor Dumbledore say a word about it either, and those fingers release to drop him the remaining six or eight inches. He falls past the landscape of pubic hair, waistband, the blurry outline of bodies the size of mountains, and plummets into the dark. He lands with an oof on steeply sloping fabric, and goes rolling down it before skidding to a stop right before--

Bloody hell.

He lands with his feet pressed against the wrinkly skin of a sack twice his size, and the looming head of his Godfather’s cock just above him. Above that, the light is slowly eclipsed by the waistband settling back into place. The fabric, no longer stretched out by Sirius’s left hand, unstoppably brings him closer to the skin of Sirius’s balls until he’s face to face with them, pressed against them from the waist down because of the hug of the fabric. They’re not exceptionally tight so he isn’t crushed, but he’s only got about three or four inches of space to move around in without the rest of him pressed flush against them, too.

Remus and Dumbledore evidently find nothing odd about this, because he can hear their too-loud too-deep voices having a steady conversation muffled by Sirius’s clothes. He can only understand every few words — how do you think — change him back — afraid I don’t know — keep you updated —  
Frankly, it’s a bit hard to pay attention to them when he’s confronted with the sight before him. Sirius’s balls absently flex a bit, contracting just a sliver with the news he’s hearing before settling heavy and loose again. Harry’s absolutely stunned, rocked still with disbelief at the whole affair and where he is now.

If it were anyone else he’d be fighting, angry, yelling and climbing, but this is Sirius, his Godfather, the male role model he trusts mosts in the entire world. At the moment, he’s far more bewildered and in shock than he is angry.

Sudden movement jars him from his stupor, with Sirius taking his first steps. The fabric goes a little more taut with the movement of his legs, hugging him gently up against his package. Those move a bit themselves with the momentum, bouncing softly every time his foot lands. It isn’t particularly bad, really, all things considered. They don’t crush him and he doesn’t find himself slipping under them, they’re just rhythmically jostled a bit against his chest. 

Once, a lengthy stride as something softly brushing the top of Harry’s head, ruffling his hair like people have done to him affectionately in the past. He startles, and when he looks up it’s to see the soft head of Sirius’s cock hanging down just a few inches above his face. Evidently the environment is such that occasionally a long step or ascending the stairs will dip his cock just enough to touch Harry’s head.

The stairs, by the way, are a bit more of a shake-up. Sirius takes them quickly, a bit of a jog, and Harry finds himself reaching out to hug the stones he’s pressed against for some semblance of stability. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it until after his arms are wrapped around as much malleable flesh as he can reach. They flex gently in response.

This walking continues for a few more minutes until Sirius is upstairs, and then he pulls back his waistband to flood the place with light before Harry can stop hugging his balls.

“Alright, Harry?” That enormous face asks from the gaping hole in the ceiling, his voice magnified to something almost painful. He does seem gently concerned, a bit empathetic or apologetic, but not the least bit ashamed of where he’s stuffed Harry.

“I’m fine- but-- Sirius, do I have to be— err-- in here?” He asks, cheeks going a bit red with heat, embarrassed about where he is and what he’s asking. The fact that he’s practically flush against Sirius’s balls while they’re talking, and that he has to move to look around his godfather’s cock to make eye contact.

“Afraid so,” Sirius says apologetically. “It’s the safest place for you right now until Albus finds a way to set you right again. He thinks it should only be a day, maybe two, so you won’t be in there long.”

“But it’s just-- it’s really-- there’s nowhere else you can put me?” 

Sirius seems amused, and actually quite a bit fond. “You’ll get used to it. Just-- you pretend you’re not in there, I’ll pretend you’re not in there, and before you know it we’ll be taking you out to fix you. Until then, I’m going to take care of you because that’s my job. Trust that I know what I’m doing.”

Maybe it’s just that Harry’s so starved for this kind of overt male authority figure that he can’t find it in himself to argue, and when Sirius closes his underwear around Harry again he’s left feeling incredibly conflicted. Burning with embarrassment and confusion, oddly comforted by being so close and so vigilantly looked after by his Godfather, frightened at his situation and... Really, he cannot overstate how embarrassing it is to be in here.

The wizarding world, he supposes, is far less concerned with things like incest — let alone a non-blood relative. It’s also far more open about sex, with wizards and witches having relations with any number of people or creatures. That, he supposes, may be why nobody’s batting an eye about being kept with his Godfather’s cock inside his underwear. Nobody except Harry, who couldn’t have even fathomed this would happen, nor prepare for the next two days of life up close and personal with what Sirius does with and to his privates regardless of Harry’s presence in them.


	54. Sirius and Tiny Harry pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Woah. The Harry Potter fic is amazing! A carry on would be amazing!

Being kept in Sirius’s pants goes back and forth from being an incredibly boring affair to being an incredibly startling one. The walking part had been eventful, and so had his first time experiencing Sirius sit down at his desk. The glide was so smooth, the descent so mitigated by fabric and solid body, he didn’t realize what was happening until the weight of his testicles started to land heavily on Harry’s legs and thighs, and then skin and flesh began to spill over onto his stomach, partly burying him beneath his Godfather’s sack. 

He had a spike of fear for a second that they wouldn’t stop rolling, that the weight would just keep mounting, but instead they settle still and only a little heavy on his torso. Sort of like having a person lay on top of him – the same body heat, a similar weight distribution, but the actual sensation is wildly different. It’s one firm bit surrounded by a ton of otherwise loose and movable skin, and it’s utter dead weight on top of him most of the time. They will periodically remind Harry that they’re part of a living body by hugging up a bit toward Sirius’s body, or by sagging down a bit again in that involuntary thoughtless way testicles typically do.

Harry spends two or three minutes utterly dumbfounded here, lying half-under his Godfather’s resting sack, staring up at the head of his dick. Wondering deliriously if he’s allowed to move, if he ought to, and then forcibly reminding himself that this is Sirius, of course he’s allowed to pull himself out from under his balls. 

It isn’t all that incredibly difficult really, considering the new space sitting opens up at the front of Sirius’s underwear. He grabs the fabric, grounds his elbows into the seat, then slowly pulls himself out from under them. A movement catches his eye - just one small bob in the cock above him, and it stills again. There’s some loud creaking, harry can see the skin on either side of Sirius’s private parts get a little farther away – apparently spreading his legs a bit – and then everything settles back down again.

He’s got enough room to stand up at least, to stretch his legs and not actually be touching any of the flesh before him. Granted it’s less than a foot away, but knowing he doesn’t actually have to be pressed against it all day is a relief. He’s just… Stuck looking at it, really. Keeping it company, because the fabric clings to Sirius’s thighs and spans up on either side with no exit. Not that he really thinks he ought to yet. 

The ceiling overhead slopes at an angle toward Sirius’s waist, and that avenue is closed as well. There’s just Harry, his little bit of standing room in front of it all, and Sirius’s cock and balls.

This is where the boring bit begins. Sirius sits at that desk doing whatever it is he’s doing – reading, maybe – with the only change in environment being the occasional way his cock seems to bob of its own accord, or his balls reel in a bit. Harry empties his pockets looking for something to do – they’re charmed to be bigger than normal, so he’s got a few options. His snitch, mainly, as well as a couple of books that emit their own light to read by. After a while he settles down cross-legged in front of his Godfather’s testicles, his knees pressing gently into the velvety-soft doughy flesh. It’s weird at first, he tries to push himself away from them, but after a few minutes he gives in and accepts that his legs are just going to be pushing into balls a bit. 

After an hour or two the world begins to shift. Sirius’s balls pull in a little, there’s a deep rumbling as the chair he’s in shoves back along the hardwood floor vibrating the ground beneath Harry, and he has just enough time to shove his book back into his pocket before the ground beneath him goes soft again. Sirius is standing. 

He’s back face to face with balls, the tip of Sirius’s dick gently brushing his hair, everything softly jostling and bouncing as he walks. This time, Harry knows to reach out and embrace the sack in front of him to keep from being tossed every which way.

Eventually, the walking stops and Harry tentatively lets go. Above him, light breaks in a steadily widening crack. He’s expecting to see his Godfather’s face, expecting another check-in, but instead it’s only massive fingers entering the space. He must be reaching in to pull Harry out, he thinks, because they’re headed right for him.

They course correct at the last moment, though, and wrap around the soft length of the cock just inches above him.

The light widens even farther, peeling down, down, down, as Sirius pulls his cock out and over the opening. Harry takes a few moments to squint, and then realizes what’s happening. Over a couple of feet of bunched up fabric, beneath the wide set of knuckles precariously close to Harry’s head, past the round head of a cock Harry can just see the profile of, he spots the background. It’s the loo.

The entire world pivots forward as Sirius tilts his pelvis down. Harry grabs onto a rumple in the fabric just before Sirius’s balls press down on him, securing him against it by accident or on purpose so he can’t go tumbling out down the steep drop to the water below.

The knuckles above him shift and tighten, and then Sirius begins to take a piss. It’s right over Harry’s head, he can see thousands and thousands of gallons begin to pour out with force from the tip of Sirius’s dick, and drop hundreds of feet down in a waterfall into the toilet below. The sound it makes is nearly deafening, a roaring waterfall.

Above it, though, he can hear a long, relieved sigh. It continues on for thirty or forty seconds as Sirius empties the entire contents of his bladder before Harry’s eyes, an up close view of it whether he likes it or not. 

Eventually it slows to a stop. 

The knuckles above him tighten again, and then raise the cock up about a foot higher before thrusting it back down toward him. Harry flinches, but the backs of Sirius’s fingers stop in its tracks. He sees a droplet of urine fall from the tip of his dick, then his knuckles tighten again and lift another two feet. He thrusts it back down toward Harry, jostling the entire environment, then catching it again with his own fingertips. Another droplet flies off.

His knuckles tighten again, lift the cock up a foot, and thrust it back down again two times in quick succession as Sirius finishes shaking.

The world angles back up to level again, and Harry gets a two or three second glimpse of Sirius’s face. It’s the backdrop to his hand and his cock, the far closer environment, but all the same he can see the absent look Sirius shoots down as he tucks himself back into his pants right over Harry’s head. 

It’s erased by the waistband coming back up again without a single word.

Not for the first time, Harry’s stunned. Not only by the torrential, unbelievable amount of piss he just witnessed come out of his godfather’s body, but at the fact that he just did it, just whipped it out and relieved himself in front of Harry’s eyes, then tucked his cock back into his underwear over his godson’s head. At least he’d been diligent about shaking it off over top of him. Harry can’t imagine what it would be like if he hadn’t, if he’d just tucked himself away lazily to allow whatever was left to drip onto his godson without a care in the world.

They begin to walk again, Harry grabs onto the balls before him to ride them, and they enter a new place with new chatter. He can hear voices that would be deafening if it weren’t for the insulation of Sirius’s clothes and body, and he’s absurdly grateful for his massive godfather protecting him from the deafening cacophony without even realizing it.

They sit again, Harry can recognize the feeling before they land, but he still can’t stop those heavy balls from settling on him first before he can pull himself gently out from under them. Once again, the cock above him bobs up two or three feet before settling down again, and it may just be Harry’s imagination that it looks a fraction of an inch bigger.

He realizes suddenly that Sirius is sitting down in either the kitchen or dining room, having conversation with a few people with his godson just settled in front of his cock and balls. Nobody asks about him, Sirius doesn’t reach for him, he’s just left there with Sirius’s dick to keep him company. 

It stays that way for another few hours before Sirius stands. Harry hugs balls. They descend the stairs. The ceiling opens up, a hand reaches in. The world tilts toward the ground. He pisses again. Tucks himself away again. Walks again.

It feels a little like it’s becoming routine.

The change happens a few hours later, when drowsiness has settled over Harry and he knows it’s getting late. They settle again, and the ground beneath him is much softer. A mattress, he thinks, right before the sky cracks open and a hand reaches in. 

Still not to pull Harry out for a different place to sleep, but rather, to pull out his cock. He’s confused for a moment; this isn’t the loo. The fabric he’s on lifts up, then scoots back away from Sirius’s testicles by a few more feet, allowing Harry a full view of sagging balls, flaccid towering cock, and the backs of Sirius’s knuckles as he wraps a hand around it.

He doesn’t seem to be doing anything in particular at first, just pressing his fingertips into different parts of it as though searching for something. It’s on the tip of his tongue to say I’m down here before he witnesses those fingertips press into the vein beneath the head of his dick and trace out a circle into the flesh. 

No.

It can’t be that, can it? Surely he wouldn’t, not with Harry in them, not with Harry right there just a few inches from it all?

Those sagging, wrinkly balls draw in a bit before his eyes, just feet away, and Harry falls backward onto his ass against the taut wall of fabric stretching between Sirius’s thighs where he’s shoved his underwear down a few inches.

Thighs are still two of his other walls, and the scene before him is the fourth, rising high up a few yards into the sky and steadily growing as Sirius lazily manipulates his own dick into an erection.


	55. Sirius and Tiny Harry pt 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fatandnerdy30 asked:  
> Can I request a third part of the Harry Potter and Sirius please?? 👼👼

For several long seconds, Harry is stunned to disbelief. Over his head towering as tall as a house is his godfather’s hand wrapped around his even taller cock. His enormous fingers press into the semi-hard spongy flesh, deliberately coaxing himself into an erection.

He– does he remember Harry’s been in his underwear all day? Surely he can’t have forgotten that Harry’s right there. He has to swallow dryly before he can call out, because his shame and embarrassment are burning hotly in his cheeks and in his throat.

“Sirius?” He calls up, though it’s nervous and its uncertainty keeps his voice from carrying. The balls before him flex, a visible surge of blood passes into the massive cock before him, and he watches his godfather’s hand slowly wrap around his thickening length. For a moment, he holds himself – but then his hand starts to move. It slides loosely with the dry sound of skin on skin, gliding all the way up those yards and yards of flesh, then all the way back down again. And then slowly back up, a pause to rub at the head of his cock, and then a slow back down again.

There’s no denying it, not in the slightest; Sirius is masturbating. Harry’s never felt more humiliated or awkward in his entire life. Somewhere above him is a gruff, rumbling murmur. Before him, his godfather’s cock is suddenly slickened perfectly with some kind of lubricant that allows his hand to pass smoothly up and down, and following it is a thunderous, reverberating mmm.

And then his hand picks up speed – not flying, but certainly a bouncing rhythm that means business. It jiggles his entire sack in front of Harry, great balls each larger than he is thumping up and down on the bed not but two or three inches from him – rather, two or three feet at his perspective. 

Oh, Merlin. He needs to snap out of it. 

“SIRIUS!” He shouts, as loud as his tiny voice will carry him. There’s a movement in the backdrop, some shifting, and suddenly he can see his Godfather’s face looming around what parts of Harry’s vision his cock and hand aren’t blocking. It’s like the sky, like the ceiling, staring down at him from far above.

His hand doesn’t stop, or even slow.

“What- Harry, you’re not underneath them, are you?” He asks, voice a little breathless but still audibly concerned. 

“Underneath– what, underneath those? No, no I’m not–”

“Good,” his godfather exhales, and Harry can see his chin lift an inch or two and his eyes close, no longer staring down into the space in front of his cock to see his godson. 

“Sirius, I’m–” He protests, a croak in his voice.

His godfather’s hand flies a bit faster, and he sounds distracted when he says, “Give me just a minute, Harry, I’m a bit too far along now to stop. Whatever you need can wait until after I’ve finished, alright?”

He can’t believe what he’s seeing, or what he’s hearing. Now it isn’t just his godfather’s hand and cock above him, it’s his face, expression twisting up in pleasure, enormous eyes periodically cracking open to stare down at him – or perhaps the cock in front of him, Harry can’t know.

He can know when his godfather gets close, though, because he sees massive lips part to let out a low groan. He sees his godfather’s hand start working his cock at a furious speed, flying up and down, stroking his member with a tight grip that makes the head of his dick look angry and swollen.

And then he hears a choked out, “Look out, god, I’m gonna come–”

His head tips back as his orgasm hits, gallons and gallons of hot come spilling over his hand and spurting in jets, raining down not only on his own balls and stomach, but on Harry as well. He shoots load after load, deaf to Harry’s cries of protest, lost in the feeling of coming so hard.

There’s a breathy exhale above him and the hands begin to slow, milking out the last droplets of it over Harry’s head. His robes, his hair, his face, they’re all soaked with his godfather’s semen.

He stands frozen, horrified, wet, uncomprehending – Sirius just came on him. 

One final sigh, and his hand moves away. He allows his softening cock to settle down over his balls again, and he finally stares down at is come-covered godson a little dazed.

“Oh– sorry about that, did I get a bit on you?” He asks, chest rising and falling as he stares down. “I did say lookout, but I suppose it’s a bit difficult to dodge down there.”

An absent observation, evidently not in much of a hurry to rectify it.

“What is it you needed, Harry?”

Harry stands speechless, lips parted, warm and sticky.

“Alright, well, if you remember, give us a shout. Where’s my– alright, here you go.” A murmured incantation, and all of the mess is abruptly gone from both Harry and his environment. “Settle in, then, it’s time for bed.”

It’s spoken around a yawn, and those massive fingers reach past Harry to grab at the waistband behind him, pulling him snugly back up against Sirius’s package.


	56. In which pre-serum Steve winds up in Bucky's balls pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> What about another part to the one where Steve is stuck in buckets balls- Steve gets cummed out only to get stuck halfway out buckets slit, and Bucky decides to keep Steve in his balls permanently so he leisurely pushes him back down deaf to his cries

It’s been more than just the _one more day_ Bucky talked about. He went to work, Steve knows it by the amount of jostling he undergoes. Bounced from wall to wall inside Bucky’s nut in a way that doesn’t resemble the rhythmic jerking of masturbation. It gets hotter like it only does when he’s doing manual labor. He can dimly, distantly hear the sound of other men in reverberating baritone. He can feel the temperature come down a little and the room around him contract before the sound of rushing water somewhere indicates Bucky’s taking a piss.

Of course, there’s a periodic sudden _bounce bounce bounce_ when Bucky occasionally decides to reach down and give his balls a little attention. Other than that, it’s just gentle swaying.

Well, gentle swaying and the slowly but surely filling up of his prison. Semen started trickling in the first time Steve bounced off of the fleshy wall, slowing and speeding up, sometimes gushing with a thick amount that must indicate Bucky had a spike of heat and lust really hard all of a sudden. It usually coincides with Bucky playing with his balls.

After work, Bucky went home and, as promised, started to jerk off. Thank god, too, because his balls had been so full Steve was floating up to the neck in them, periodically sloshed and doused and drug under into his cum if he moved too fast or too hard. The up and down shaking of is balls while they’re this full is a nightmare, he goes swaying left and right with the pool of liquid unable to find a single second of stability as they bounce in time with Bucky’s quickly moving fist.

All around him like thunder he can hear Bucky talking; _God you feel so good in there, Stevie. Been turning me on all goddamn day. I’m not kidding, I can feel you in there every minute, it feels so fucking good, it gets me so hard--_

It devolves into moaning, the flap overhead opens to release some of the contents of Bucky’s balls, and Steve dives for it before it closes again. Gets his hands into it, tries to pull. Bucky _moans_ like a desperate man dying, and then rumbles out; _Jesus, Steve, I can’t take you out yet, I gotta leave you in there a little while longer, I’ve never felt anything so-- fucking-- good--_

He can’t hear Steve yelling, Steve knows he can’t. It’s impossible. He pounds his fist on that flap, scrambles and tugs at it wildly to try and get _out_ , and all the while Bucky’s out there going, _Yes, fuck, yes, Jesus, whatever you’re doing, oh my god Steve, oh my god, you’re gonna make me come-- I’m gonna leave you in there okay, you’re staying in my balls but I’m gonna come--_

Just like last time, Bucky’s hand shoots down on instinct to grab at his nuts and distort the shape of them as orgasm hits. Liquid goes surging past Steve as the room around him collapses in tight, Bucky’s balls squeezing up against his body as he spills out every single fucking scrap of the contents.

Except for Steve.

Steve’s still in them after they relax, after the shaking slows and stills. Bucky lets out another tired, satisfied moan. Reaches down to gently play with them, rolling them in his palm, squeezing them, sending Steve once again to the flat of his back by the unsteadiness of the ground beneath him. He hears a deep; _thank you so much, sweetheart, thank you for staying in them. God, you belong in there._

That was three days ago.

Bucky’s jerked off at least twice a day since then. The constant obsession and idle playing with his balls never stops, nor does the crooning of how good he feels, how he still feels as amazing as day one every time he brushes up against the inside of Bucky’s balls. How much Bucky loves him in there, and how it’s just gonna be _one more day I swear and then I’ll come you out, I just haven’t gotten tired of it yet_.

It’s the same story again tonight, with Bucky’s balls full to the goddamn brim and the world shaking furiously around him as he jacks and jacks and jacks himself to the feeling of Steve inside of him.

He gets so lost in the feeling of Steve’s determined desperation to pull that flap open and wriggle inside it, he forgets to squeeze himself. Orgasm hits like a fucking truck, he squeezes his cock with a vice grip as he strokes through it, feeling Steve’s body writhing out of the same place his semen pushes out when he comes, making it feel to sensitive nerves like he’s really fucking _blowing_ a load when he passes Steve through it. 

It’s fucking amazing.

Steve manages to make it out of the exit by the second or third stripe of come rushing out of Bucky’s dick, and the next one pushes him up the shaft with the force of it. He sees bright, blinding light up ahead at the end of a long, pink tunnel for the first time in nearly a week. He scrambles for it desperately amid the sensation of a hand rhythmically tightening the flesh around him, deliberately gripping and jerking where he’s climbing. There’s hot come rushing up all around him, pushing past him, carrying him with it a little until he finally, finally, _finally_ manages to get his arms out of Bucky’s dick and pull himself up into fresh, clean air.

He has to blink and squint to clear his eyes, and even then everything’s still a little blurry for being so, so big. He sees the wide head of Bucky’s cock stretching out several feet in either direction, filthy-slick and shiny from semen. He feels it gently smush him in an embrace a a massive hand strokes up it again. In the far, far off distance he can see Bucky’s slitted eyes staring down at him like some kind of god. He’s vast, enormous, everywhere. He is foreign and almost unreachably alien at this scale.

They make eye contact -- or rather, Steve makes eye contact, but his face is too small for Bucky to see without leaning in, which he doesn’t. He can tell Bucky’s looking at all of him at once like a tiny little bug or something, features indistinct, vaguely recognizable. 

“Oops,” he hears, amplified a hundred times too loud. Soon, something blots his face out of Steve’s view. Takes him a second to realize it’s a thumb print; Steve can see every single divot in the whorls as it lowers toward him, looming. 

“No. no, no, wait, stop, stop, please--”

Bucky can’t hear him. He doesn’t even falter.

“Accidentally shot you out. Sorry about that.”

All of it said as the thumb descends, a terrifying lethal force that pushes him back down into slit -- though honestly, it wouldn’t have to. Steve would drop down into it himself out of sheer fear of being decimated by it. It seals off the opening of Bucky’s dick, blocking out all light again. He can hear the friction sound of it rubbing back and forth, pushing and pushing like it means to chase him back down the tunnel below. 

Bucky curls a hand around his dick to stand it upright again, and Steve goes scrambling at the walls trying to slow the slick, friction-less descent gravity pulls him through, sliding down the hot tunnel and unable to find purchase in the walls.

Outside, Bucky moans again. Steve watches the light grow more and more distant. 

_God, Steve, you feel almost as good goin’ in as you did coming out. Get back in my balls, Steve, I wanna feel you back in there. Just another day or two._

Steve’s feet hit that flesh he knows will give way, and he claws at the walls. It illicits another moan, but Bucky starts bouncing his dick and his balls gently.

_Go on, get in. Get in ‘em. Lemme feel you climb back inside ‘em._

He can’t stop it. Bucky keeps bouncing, shaking, forcing him to fall and slam into the flap, then tumble through it.

_Oh my fucking. God._

He hears, and a sudden hot flood of semen spills back into the room he’s in.

_Jesus Christ, you have no idea how good that felt. God, I gotta do it again, Steve. Jesus, coming you out and shoving you back in ‘em again... I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind. I’m gonna come again, I have to._


	57. A tiny stuck in underwear, unaware

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> “IM DOWN HERE, HEY!” -tiny stuck in underwear rising

Dark blue cotton stretches out six feet to his left and to his right, stopping at massive pillars of flesh spotted with hair as thick as wires. He’s on his back and he can’t even think to rise because of the steady force pushing him downward. It’s like being on an elevator going up, but if the world were in slow motion.

At the very, very limits of his vision, he can see the cut of Bucky’s chin. It’s pointed up and out, it gives way to the curve of a cheekbone, and that’s it. He can’t see eyes, nose, nothing. Bucky doesn’t even so much as glance down.

That’s a staggering perspective away, though, like looking up at the top of the empire state building from the sidewalk outside. Much closer is the flat wall of chest, and directly overhead is Bucky’s bare package. He’s left staring up at the soft head of a cock pointed in his direction, nestled gently on top of a heavy pair of testicles that seem to be on a course directly for him.

He’s almost in denial this is happening.

“HEY-- I’M DOWN HERE, BUCKY, I’M DOWN HERE-- DON’T--”

The crotch of his briefs reach their destination. He’s carried up into them until they’re settled on top of him; extremely pliant and wrinkly skin like dough, malleable and drooping around any section he manages to push up with his hands. Pushing at the heavy weight doesn’t seem to accomplish anything, it almost feels more like he’s kneading into the soft flesh than actually moving it in any discernible way.

They move of their own accord, pulling up a little around him. They take him with them, swallowing him between them and surrounding him in a cocoon of elastic skin.

And then they move, writhing and rising and falling like a ship at sea, tossing in a jiggling bouncing sway that he’s helpless to fight. Something rolls them in a circular motion, too deliberate to be anything but a hand manipulating them. They separate again at the behest of two probing fingers that dig in around Steve and pinch-squeeze-grab him through rough cotton. Bucky inadvertently saves him, pulling him out from between his balls because he’s correcting a weird little itch. 

He’s back to being under them again, and then the walking starts. Rhythmic, booming thuds that shake the flesh atop him like jello, like an earthquake, step after constant step.

He’s gotta get out from under them. He has to. Instead of pushing, he opts to try and drag himself out. He reaches up as high as his arms will allow, grabs on tight to folds of skin, and _pulls_ himself along beneath them. Pushes with his feet. Reaches up higher. _Pulls_ again, painstakingly pulling his tiny body inch by inch out from beneath his best friend’s testicles and heading northward.

His savior becomes the villain. Probing fingers find him again through the fabric and push, grinding him into the flesh in front of him. Shoving and rubbing up and down, balls clenching until he’s swallowed deep into them again.

And then he resumes walking, itch scratched, satisfied.


	58. Stucky Cockring Chronicles Pt 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Maybe for the Cock Ring story, steve just keep snapping in and out of the curse, giving Bucky emotional whiplash

Steve’s got a hand on his dick the entire way home, like hanging onto it makes it any better. Like it makes up for weeks of being stuck there. As soon as they get in, Steve heads straight for the bedroom and strips. He lifts his soft cock up so his fingers can start unhooking the restraints keeping Bucky there, and when he sets Bucky down on the chin-high dresser he can see nothing but remorse on that massive face.

“Jesus- Buck, I am so sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what that was, There was something in my head–”

Bucky flips him the bird and paces away from the edge of the dresser. He doesn’t get very far before Steve’s hand comes down behind him, gently blocking his path. 

“Wait- come on, wait, talk to me, man?”

“Talk to you,” Bucky echoes, complete deadpan. He turns around to meet Steve’s eye, rubbing at his wrists. “All of a sudden it’s _talk_ to you, like I wasn’t talking plenty before you used me to jerk off? Before you _shoved me_ into your date because it _felt good_?”

Steve winces, eyes ducking down for a long moment before they lift again to appeal pleadingly to Bucky. 

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t in my right mind, I swear, I’d never do that to you on purpose. I don’t know what came over me, but I _promise_ we’re gonna take you to Scott first thing in the morning, alright? We’ll fix it.”

Bucky huffs out a sardonic laugh, and he mutters a barely audible, “Yeah, we’ll see.”

Steve spends the rest of the night trying to win him over with food and beer, with a new comfortable place to sleep – his own pillow on the opposite side of the bed. Another one of those mournful looks before the light flicks out.

He thinks maybe, _goddamn finally_ , this is wrapping up. He falls asleep comfortably for the first time in ages.

He wakes up to tremors jostling the bed, Steve rolling over onto his back and reaching a hand down his boxers – looking confused, then searching the blankets, the sheets, the pillow–

His hulking form rises a couple of stories up, looming over Bucky like the sky.

“Hey, pal, what are you doing up there?” His too-loud voice sounds confused, amused, and gives no time for Bucky to answer before thick fingers descend against his will to grip him tightly by the stomach. 

“Steve– what the hell, man, you said you were gonna stop– you were gonna fix this–”

“Huh?” He asks, sleep-bleary, gliding Bucky steadily back down toward his groin. Out of his peripheral vision, Bucky sees Steve’s left hand invade to peel his cock up again, and his right starts securing Bucky’s wrists into place. “Fix what? What’re you talking about? Fix that you came off my dick? Yeah– sorry, I don’t know how that happened, pal, but there you go. Back where you belong.”

He hums softly, approvingly, and his massive hand wraps around Bucky and the soft flesh he’s pressed against again. He massages himself gently with Bucky’s body, pushing him in circles into malleable flesh. Bucky’s heated, furious, he starts kicking and writhing futilely against skin he knows entirely too well now.

“Easy, Buck. You miss it that much? I think it missed you, too,” he says, softly amused, a little heat moving south. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you in the morning. Night, buddy.”

And he rolls over to lay deliberately on his stomach – before he settles fully, his hand snakes down to move his cock, to make sure the underside is pressing against the sheets. Gives his hips an experimental roll to make sure everything’s lined up to hump him properly overnight, and then he settles down again.

In his mind, he’s being soothing and comforting by dragging his hips up and down again. Giving Bucky a reassuring little gift by rubbing himself off. It’s an apology.

In the morning, Steve wakes up hard as a rock. His mind is his own again, but just like he hadn’t remembered why Bucky was off his dick overnight, he doesn’t remember putting him back on there.

Beyond that, he doesn’t think about it. He reclines back comfortably, slips his boxers down a few inches, and takes his already throbbing erection into his hands. As he starts to jerk off, he idly thinks about how his piercing feels a little different, but it feels fucking _amazing_ , so he’ll stop to investigate it afterward. In the meantime, he presses his fingertips into it and _grinds_ it against his dick, massaging the vein and the sensitive nerves roughly.

And then he starts jacking in earnest, moaning as he fists himself, slick with precum, _loving_ whatever’s going on down there, It isn’t until he’s about to trip into orgasm that he finally looks down, roughly stroking a fast rhythm, ready to watch himself come, desperate for it and only maybe two strokes away.

And then he spots his friend, he has enough time to rasp out a confused, “Bucky?”

Climax hits, and it hits so hard he goes white-out for a second, head tipped back, hand furiously working himself through it, _moaning_ and fucking his own tight fist.

It tapers off slowly, and he catches his breath as his hand slows down too, gently stroking out the last of the sensation through soaking wet come that erases any friction and makes the lazy jacks glide sweetly.

–oh

“ _Shit–”_ he peels his hand away, quickly wiping it off on his own thigh so he can start detaching Bucky’s wrists again. “I’m sorry- I forgot you were down there. I forgot I put you back on my dick last night, I swear, I didn’t remember, I just woke up hard and it felt so good and then I was coming–”

There’s an involuntary pang in his gut, another deep spike of arousal when he lifts Bucky up to see him coated completely in Steve’s come. His pupils dilate, and for the first time, Steve seems absolutely conflicted. 


	59. Stucky CockRing Chronicles Pt 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> For the Cock Ring chronicles, maybe Steve invites someone else over, like Sam or Thor, to keep an eye on Steve to prevent him from using Bucky again, but not knowing that the spell affects other males when in close proximity around Bucky.

“I gotta be honest with you, I’m not seeing the problem,” Sam says, standing a mile high over where Bucky’s been placed on the kitchen table. Steve stands beside him, both of them with their hands on their hips studying him like a specimen. Bucky saw it take Sam over in real time, this subtle red wisp of something pass from Steve’s lips and into Sam’s, a contagious breath that had him shuddering for just a second.

His face seemed to slacken for a second, and when he looked down again it’s with that same cavalier expression one might wear if they were a little amused by something but otherwise completely unconcerned. “When you texted me I thought it was gonna be about saving somebody from something, but I’m pretty sure you’re using this thing right.”

Steve makes a soft, interested, “Huh,” sound in the back of his throat. 

“You mind if I try it out a little?” He asks, glancing over at Steve. Steve gestures at the table freely with a casual wave of his hand. 

“Be my guest.”

Bucky’s relatively certain that in any other setting Sam would never do this in front of Steve, but neither of them seem particularly concerned when he starts unzipping his fly. In no time at all he’s pulled his flaccid cock out, and he drags Bucky by the leg clean up to the edge of the table. 

There, Sam positions his dick over Bucky’s body and starts to lightly tap him with it. Well, rather, it’s light to Sam. A little more forceful to Bucky, being softly slapped over and over with the heavy weight of Sam’s soft dick. It isn’t really even enough to sting, but it’s embarrassing as hell.

It doesn’t stay soft for long; after twenty or thirty seconds of repeatedly slapping his small body with a dick twice his size, Sam starts to harden. At about half way he stops slapping, and instead gently glides his hips back and forth so that his cock is gently fucking Bucky into the table.

“Oh, I see what you mean. Yeah, no, this is nice,” Sam agrees. 

Steve nods, watching without a trace of concern. “Yeah, no, it’s great. What I’ve been doing is attaching him to the piercing I’ve got and letting him kinda move around on it while I have sex.”

“I bet that’s great,” Sam says, eyes on Steve but hips still rolling back and forth to absently fuck the guy beneath him.

“Buddy, you have no idea. You wanna get off on him before I put him back?

“You don’t mind?”

“Nah, of course not.”

“Then yeah, man, I’d love to come on him first.”


	60. Stucky CockRing Chronicles pt 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> For the Cock Ring chronicles - whoever suggested the curse affecting other males is a genius. I agree with you that anal insertion is a bit icky (although an argument could be made for a condom being used), but what about Sam giving Steve a blowjob? 👀

At some point, Steve went to grab Sam one of the pillows from his bed to set on the kitchen table. They nestled Bucky down onto it, Sam set his cock back on top, and then arranged it a little so that the whole thing gently cradled the two of them. Then, Sam spent about ten or fifteen minutes making small-talk with Steve, all while absently fucking the pillow - specifically, the guy beneath it.

In terms of what Bucky’s dealt with so far, this isn’t the worst. The fabric and cushion beneath him is soft, it rises up on either side of him like a hill, and Sam doesn’t crush him with his dick like Steve does. He just sort of absently humps, passing his dick back and forth over Bucky’s body, slow but constant strokes that seem more bent on enjoying the little thing beneath him than rushing to make himself come.

It’s bizarre, experiencing this constant friction-glide humping while listening to them talk about the weather, or sports, or whatever. It’s almost kind of calm, kind of peaceful - like Bucky’s a fidget toy but for Sam’s cock. He slowly, lazily enjoys the sensation until he’s leaking at the tip, and he doesn’t even look down when his hand absently curls around it to peel back and paint Bucky with the head.

His eyes are still on Steve while he glides his wet tip around Bucky’s body, dragging precum from face to chest to legs and in circles all around him, pressing him gently into the pillow. He’s just as absent in the way he settles that dick back on top of him and then starts rocking his hips again.

After a while he pleasantly says, “Hold on, man, I’m about to come.”

The rock-hard cock leaves Bucky’s body and changes angles; he’s left to watch Sam’s fist curl around it, Sam’s entire body bend over him, and the tip of his dick point at Bucky’s face and chest.

And then he starts stroking, breathless and with lips parted, fisting his dick barely an inch or two over Bucky. Groaning when he reaches peak, nudging the tip of his dick down against Bucky’s face a few times before he lifts back up again.

A short, stuttered breath precedes a chaotic faltering in his rhythm, and then a low _moan_ hits just as come starts streaking out of his cock and striping over Bucky’s everything. His eyes, his mouth, his chest, his entire body just _soaked_ in it. He flails, splutters, wipes his mouth and his eyes as a third and a fourth round of semen shoot out of Sam onto him. 

When the last of his orgasm begins to round out, Sam absently dips to wipe the tip of his dick off on Bucky as well before he shakes his junk free of any last drop and tucks himself away back into his pants.

“Well?” Asks Steve finally, as though waiting for the final verdict.

“It’s great, he definitely belongs against one, you know? Just kind of fits. I think you should put him back before he’s off yours for too long, probably not good for him to be separated from it. Seems a little scatter-brained, he might forget he’s supposed to be on there. Don’t want to confuse him, you know, seems like he needs consistency. Plus, it’s good for you too. Your dick’s gotta feel way better now that he’s living on it.”

“You’re right,” Steve agrees, reaching out to pluck Bucky up. He absently wipes Bucky off on the pillowcase, dragging his front across the fabric. He doesn’t bother properly washing before he pulls out is own dick, rock-hard from watching, to start screwing Bucky’s arms back into place.

“Hey– I know you said you fuck people with him, but you ever had anyone go down on you with him on there?” 

Steve pauses, circling a hand around himself and around the passenger just beneath the head of his dick. It twitches at the thought. Bucky can’t see the way they’re looking at each other, he can barely really hear while Steve’s hand is gently stroking and manipulating himself – skin on skin and idly crushing him into vein tends to sort of drown the world out.

“Now that you mention it, no.”

“You want me to–?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

Steve’s hand leaves his cock, and Bucky’s left forcibly hugging it like normal. A change in his peripheral has him tilting his head back just in time to see a set of massive lips parting. 

It’s survival instinct that has him thrashing, an animal part of his brain forgetting that he’s secured into place and convinced for a second Sam is about to eat him. 

He’s not _completely_ wrong. Sam’s hand wraps around the base of Steve’s cock, and an enormous pink tongue the size of a bed slips between those lips to touch down a few inches below his feet and then _drag_ itself up along his back. 

It’s wet, soft, the pressure’s firm as it pushes him into the underside of Steve’s cock. It’s wide enough that it covers every inch of him, and it’s still a little on him as it curves over the head of Steve’s dick. 

The flesh above him pulses and stiffens, a jolt of approval running through it as pleasure spikes through it. 

The tongue flattens out again, sealing him in, sandwiched between muscle and cock as it lathes, twirling and rubbing around him and the sensitive spot on Steve’s dick that he’s attached to.

When it reels back and the light filters in again, Bucky looks up to see the wide plane of a lower lip stretching around the head of Steve’s dick, and the it starts advancing toward him. Everything him seizes up with fear, but it stops about an inch above his head to reel back.

Steve’s hand moves in his peripheral vision, gliding through space and landing at the back of Sam’s head to gently encourage him.

“You think he’s ready to go in?” Sam asks from so close to Bucky it’s deafening; his voice is so loud it reverberates through Bucky’s entire body.

“Who?” Steve asks, and then, “Oh. Yeah, it doesn’t matter, he feels really good on there no matter what. Ignore him, just suck me off-”

“You got it,” Sam says, and then those lips wrap back around the head of Steve’s dick.

They advance, and they don’t stop this time. The tight ring of muscle passes over Bucky’s head, sealing his upper half in, the back of his head coated again with spit as Sam’s tongue circles Steve’s cock head over and over again, catching Bucky in the process. Steve’s dick jolts again, _hard_. 

Then Sam takes him the rest of the way down, and all light disappears. There’s just wet mouth everywhere, lathing tongue pressing him ruthlessly up against Steve’s excited dick, grinding him and licking him. Soft suction pulls at his shoulder blades, and he can hear Steve moaning distantly. 

And then Steve starts to gently thrust. He pulls out just far enough that Bucky gets a two-second glimpse of light, lips, blurry background, and then gently thrusts him back into dark, wet, tongue, soft, heat, mouth. Out to light, passing over the tight ring of wet lip, in again to mouth and tongue and suction.

Soon enough, Steve’s hips snap in too deep. Both his dick and Bucky wind up deep at the back of Sam’s throat. It locks up on instinct, tightening around the two of them and massaging them both as it attempts to swallow. 

Steve groans, and following it, _Sam_ groans. It’s a sound that reverberates all around him, it vibrates the muscle squashing him tight against dick. It nearly bursts his eardrums just from the soft humming Sam’s doing around the head of Steve’s dick.

Things pick up a notch. Steve thrusts faster, in and out of Sam’s mouth with what’s probably gentle to Sam but which is a blurry, terrifying nightmare for Bucky. He’s gliding over lip and tongue and shoved into the back of a tightening throat, pulled out, shoved back in, pulled out, shoved back in, minutes and minutes of this.

Right up until he feels Steve go diamond hard above him and start jerking, twitching, spasming— and then he shoves into the back of Sam’s throat as the first hard _throb_ pulls his orgasm out. He shoots so hard Sam’s throat locks up again, swallowing with intense force and pressure, squishing and pulling and not-swallowing Bucky down with Steve’s come.

He pulls out, and he _thrusts_ back in again within a second for the next round.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And two more times, fucking Sam’s throat as he spills every last bit of his orgasm into the cavernous mouth wrapped around him.

When Steve finally reels out, he’s flaccid and Bucky’s coated with saliva.

“Hey,” Sam says raspy-throated, absently gripping Steve’s dick and kneading Bucky into it. “You ever heard of cock warming?”


	61. Bucky falls into Steve's cock and he just doesn't care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I wonder if I just- finished the job here-“ sorry I meant like a tiny halfway stuck in a dick sorta deal and giant shoved further in rather than rescuing. I’m new to dirty talk, whoops

It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t intentional. Steve stepped out of the shower and into his briefs, and who the hell checks to see if their shrunken best friend somehow wound up in their underwear? He makes it about two steps before he feels something stimulating him, a stroking-tingling sensation at the top of his dick. It brings him pause, and he reaches down to probe around the fabric for a second to see if it happens again.

It _does_ , a little harder and a little stronger this time. It feels _good_ , don’t get him wrong, but it’s a little disconcerting having no idea what’s pressing a little into the slit of his cock – no matter that it’s sort of turning him on.

He pulls back the waistband of his briefs, curls a hand around the base of his cock to point it upward, and there’s half a goddamn person sticking out of it. Bucky, in up to his waist, arms grabbing at the head of his dick while his legs kick and move inside it. Explains the pleasant sensation.

“The hell are you doing in there?” He asks, amusement in his voice and his features as he stares down at his dick.

“I fell off the dresser!” He yells up, slipping a little as Steve’s dick flexes involuntarily around him. It pulls him down another two or three inches (from his perspective), and he shoves a foot against the fleshy wall within to try and push his way back out again.

It hadn’t been fun, from his end. He’d been walking along the top of it waiting for Steve to come out when the air conditioner kicked on. A sudden sharp rush of air knocked him clean across feet and feet of polished wood, then over the ledge entirely. It was only the grace of a slightly-opened drawer that saved him from a full-on fall, and he wound up tangled in fabric in the dark.

He was still fighting to free himself when the drawer slid open, tossing him back down into the cross-hatched pattern of cotton crotch. Before he could say a word, force of movement plastered him against the fabric as Steve pulled it out, and then he was laying in a hammock staring up as two titanic feet stepped into the leg holes on either side.

He got two slow motion seconds to stare straight up at the underside of Steve’s privates, and then the upward soaring toward it began.Trying to climb up apparently put him in a bad position, and the second step shook him loose down to where the tip of Steve’s dick pressed against the fabric. His slit was open, a little maw just wide enough for his legs legs to get pushed in up to the thigh.

The movement of force and pressure against the fabric behind him forced him in further, clean up to his waist. Thank god, the ceiling overhead broke open with flooding light and a massive, descending hand to wrap around the dick holding him.

It’s a little bit of a roller coaster as Steve reels his dick upward, and then he’s left staring up at his best friend from waist-height, trying to hang on to velvety-soft skin while pressure and gentle suction pull at him from below.

It’s clear by that enormous face staring down at him that Steve doesn’t feel the same sense of urgency that he does. It almost feels like betrayal, too, when the walls around him thicken just a little while Steve looks down, unfazed. “I landed in these, and you pulled ‘em on before I could get your attention.”

“And then you got stuck in my dick,” he volunteers the ending of the story, not yet lifting a hand to pull Bucky out. Instead, Bucky feels a little bit of force like the movement of a car as Steve starts walking, a gentle up-down rhythm to everything. It wouldn’t be so bad if he weren’t where he was, and every too-quick drop threatens to pull him a little further in.

Steve sits down in a chair, looking down at his crotch with one hand still wrapped around his dick. Bucky can suddenly feel a flush of warmth all around him, a pulse in the flesh that leaves it feeling a little thicker than it was, and the passage beneath him becomes suddenly (worryingly) less tight. Easier to accidentally slip into.

“Can’t believe you wound up in there of all the places,” Steve muses, relaxing into the back of the chair to just… watch. Bucky can tell he’s getting gradually more turned on the longer they wait. “Kinda reminds you how much bigger it is than you, huh? Lucky I was awake or I wouldn’t even know you were in there.”

“Hey– you wanna help me outta here?” He calls up, some mix of frustrated and nervous. Steve’s eyebrows hike up.

“Help you outta my dick? Pal, you wound up there on your own, that ain’t _my_ fault.” Like he’s wiping his hands clean of any responsibility. “Have you even tried? It doesn’t look like you’re putting much effort into it. I got something more important to do.”

“Seriously? You can’t just pull me out?”

Steve gently releases his cock, half hard so that it’s propped up by the muscles of his barely-reclining stomach. “I got stuff to do, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

The entire chair turns, and half of Bucky’s vision gets cut off by the underside of a desk. Steve peels his eyes away, lifts his chin so that Bucky can’t even see his _face_ anymore, and then both of his arms stretch across the expanse between his chest and the desk.

“Are you serious? Steve- _Steve_ \- it’ll take you one goddamn second to pull me out of here.”

Steve doesn’t even bother looking down; Bucky can hear the clack of keys and the clicking of a mouse. “Nope. Not right now, buddy, I’m busy. I’ll try to get you out when I’m done if I remember.”

Frustration runs through Bucky like a river, and he drives his elbows into the head of Steve’s cock with renewed effort. Plants his feet and does his best to _shove_ , which might’ve worked if it didn’t send a surge of blood to Steve’s dick from the pleasurable feeling he causes. It makes the whole thing twitch, lifting off of Steve’s stomach and slapping back against it again. He loses any progress he may have made.

Above him, he can suddenly hear the tinny sounds of moans coming from Steve’s laptop speakers. He’s watching fucking _porn_ right now, without even an apologetic glance downwards.

“You gotta be kidding me! You’re doing that _now_? While I’m _inside your dick?”_

 _“_ I was planning to anyway, it’s not my fault you wound up in there.” A hand leaves the keyboard, Bucky sees it soaring toward him and hopes beyond hope it’s to finally tug him free before Steve starts. He’s disappointed immediately as Steve wraps his hand around himself, lightly touching and massaging his cock. Bucky can see his knuckles moving down below him, he can feel Steve fill out the rest of the way until he’s fully hard and the passageway beneath him is precariously wide. “I hope you can get out before I get going. I’m a little worried about you.”

“Steve– Steve if you don’t stop I’m gonna slip– Steve, you’re gonna make me fall in it– Stop _stroking_ or I’m gonna fall in-”

Steve’s eyes flicker down again, but the gentle probing beneath his head and along the vein don’t stop.

“Yeah, looks like you might wind up in there while I’m jerking off,” he agrees casually. His hand wraps around properly, but his grip is incredibly loose as he slowly strokes. Still, the slit around Bucky winks tightly closed, squeezing his chest - then opens fully on the down-stroke. Bucky drops another inch, in up to his arm pits and barely hanging on. “Bad timing, that’s gotta make it harder for you down there.”

“Help- man- please, _please_ \- I can’t get out.”

“I’m busy,” Steve says again, tugging out another stroke. “Plus, I like it. You feel really good, I bet if I jack off with you in there it’d feel amazing. Hate to say it, man, but I’m kinda hoping you fall in now.”

It’s thoughtful, and as he considers it a thumb lifts up to start circling the head around Bucky like a looming shark circles prey. It drops down so Steve can start stroking properly, a little breathless as he stares down at Bucky.

Bucky can’t goddamn believe it, the sight of it all. His best friend’s face dispassionately watching him like he’s as interesting as the porn on his laptop. The quick movement of his arm as he strokes his dick with Bucky still in it.

“i really don’t think you’re gonna make it out before I come, Buck. I’m about to start jerkin’ harder and you just keep slipping. I’m sorry, buddy, but I think you’re gonna fall in my cock.” The flesh around him pulses hard in approval, and Steve’s thumb starts circling him again. “Can’t believe you wound up in it right before I started doing this. Probably couldn’t have picked a worse time to be in there.”

He takes his thumb away to fist himself tightly and fuck into it, the ring of his hand squeezing his slit closed as he pushes in and out of it. “Man, that’s probably tight. Probably hard to breathe through it when I do that, huh? Sorry about that. I’m not doing it because you’re in there, I swear, this is just how I jerk off.”

And he rolls his hips into his fist again, squeezing the air out of Bucky’s lungs every time he pushes into that tight ring. He slows down again, breath going short, cock angry-red and pulsing hard.

“I wonder if I just… Finish the job here,” He muses, lifting his thumb and then lowering it so that it gently ruffles Bucky’s hair. All Bucky can see above him is the whorls of a thumb print. “Since you can’t get out anyway, and you’re in such a hurry. Maybe I can just speed this along for you, shove you in the rest of the way so I can go back to it without worrying about you so much. Just kinda feel you for a little while instead until you make me come. Think that’d probably get you out, huh? If I shoot hard enough when I come?”

“Steve, don’t push me in. Steve _please_ don’t shove me in– I don’t wanna go in your cock, man, you gotta stop jacking off- I’m _in here_ , I’m _in your dick_ , please just stop–”

The thumb presses down a little, and the strain on Bucky’s arms is too much. He has to reel them in, fighting against the flesh around him to get them down by his sides so they don’t snap.”Kind of inconsiderate, aren’t you, man? It’s not my fault you’re in there, I’m not stopping and I’m not pulling you out. Be kind of doing you a favor, just shoving you in and getting it over with. You want out, I’ll come you out when I get off, you can thank me afterward. Helping you out by finishing, right?”

“Steve….”

“Yeah, I think I wanna feel you in there,” he decides, and the pad of his thumb pushes down, shoving Bucky in the rest of the way. His vision is obscured on most sides by darkness, leaving only a tunnel of light at the slit of Steve’s cock and the blurry sight of his face beyond it, staring down into his hole. He can see Steve’s pupils blown wide, his lips parted in what looks like pain, but he can tell by the sudden constricting throbs that it’s anything but.

He can’t see Steve’s arm move, but he can _feel_ when Steve strokes up his dick. The pressure becomes immense, and the window over his head closes up to blot out all light.

It opens again on the down-stroke, and Steve’s moaning down at him. The space around him flexes, and as the hand passes over him he feels himself slipping a little deeper down. It earns another sharp _jerk_ , and then the squeeze becomes tighter, it passes over him faster, the slit blinks closed again and stays that way for two or three more seconds until it gently peels itself apart on the down stroke.

He slips again. He’s gotta be five feet down now, too low to see anything but Steve’s enormous eyes – unfocused, because they can’t see him in there anymore. That doesn’t seem to matter; the stroking gets faster, becomes a sort of _dark… light… dark… light… dark… light_ rhythm. The deeper he slips, the tighter the passage around him feels.

“Jesus, Buck, you’re in my fucking _cock_ , that’s so hot, man. You feel– so fucking– _good_ in there- ahh–”

Beneath his feet is a sudden pressure; fluid forces its way around him, gushing past his face and soaking his body, Climbing past him and over head, leaving lingering traces that threaten to drown him unless he writhes, shoving his face against the tunnel wall to clear it.

Another loud _groan_ ensues, more thick semen gushes – and doesn’t _stop_ gushing, so he has to constantly move and squirm to keep from drowning in it. The pressure around him, the shaking-stroking-squeezing, becomes too fast for him to even comprehend. The light at the end of the tunnel is distant, nearly entirely blocked by precum, It’s too dark to tell how deep he’s fallen in Steve’s cock.

He can hear the groaning, though; it seems to be coming from everywhere around him, source-less, reverberating the guttural pleasure Steve’s feeling from this. 

The walls around him go suddenly rigid, tense, tight. They squeeze so hard he’s afraid of bones breaking. Distantly, he can hear an urgent, breathless, “Oh god, oh god- I’m gonna come you out- you gotta want it so bad, I’m gonna do it for you, fuck, you’re welcome, hang on– just a sec–”

Liquid presses against his feet, blocked by Bucky’s body, holding it back like a dam. Steve’s moaning like a goddamn lunatic as his orgasm builds but can’t release because Bucky’s holding it back, keeping him on edge until it builds up and builds up and builds _up_ enough momentum that it finally-

A long, low moan accompanies the sudden shot of pressure that forces Bucky’s body up the passage about half way, come flowing past him once before another round of pressure builds up again – Steve’s midway through orgasm, and his next peak-shot is dragged out once again by the tiny body in his dick. Enough pressure accumulates again to force him up another inch, and it’s met with a stuttered, disbelieving moan like Steve can’t fucking fathom how it feels. The third streak of come is much the same, building up and stretching things out until if forces Bucky up three or four feet from the exit. 

Another builds up. He makes it about a foot from the tip of Steve’s dick as he blows the last of his load out over his hand, striping up his own chest, fucking _everywhere_. The last of it oozes slow, it’s smaller, it isn’t enough to push him that last foot.

Steve strokes his way through it, his hand gradually slowing, milking out every second of orgasm he can greedily steel from Bucky’s body inside him.

He catches his breath, his cock slowly softening and his eyes peering into his slit. He can see Bucky’s face among the last bits of semen gently leaking out.

“Huh,” he murmurs, releasing is dick to settle on his stomach again. “Sorry, man, I really thought that would work. I tried my best. Guess you’re on your own.”


	62. Bucky shoves Steve into his jock before a run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> corrupt5tateofmind asked:  
> Idk if this is up your alley, but for the prompts maybe steve being trapped in bucky's jockstrap while he works out? Aware or unaware. Or! Steve being hung like a necklace around bucky's neck and being smothered between his pecs. Just some ideas :)

“Sit tight, buddy,” is the only warning Bucky gives before the world starts rushing up around him. Above him – so damn far above him he has to crane his neck back – he stares up at Bucky’s face. It’s enormous, it’s a mile up and his eyes are so large it almost feels like it’s impossible to make eye contact with them. Like he’s looking into a pupil but instead of connecting he’s just seeing the black while Bucky’s seeing all of him at one time.

He feels so distant, so disconnected, he almost seems alien. Too big and too detached for Steve to really feel like they can even have a conversation anymore. His face is so far away, even, from the fingers wrapped around them Steve has to remind himself they’re connected. That the thick tree-trunk like knuckles and fingertips half-curled around him are Bucky’s, piloted by that hovering face.

He’s in such disbelief that he looks up to the guy above him for help from the very same guy’s hand slow-motion lowering him down, down, down the enormous plane of bare chest and bare stomach and toward – he looks down – the pit of crotch beneath him. 

Bucky’s other hand is holding back his waistband, granting Steve a gaping wide view down into his jock strap. It’s cavernous almost; he can make out where stomach becomes pubic hair, he can make out the flesh-colored shape of a flaccid cock, and then it goes dark.

“Buck– Bucky– Please don’t put me in there–”

Above him, Bucky’s voice is a near-deafening baritone, “Sorry, buddy, if you’re talking I can’t hear you. Tell me later after the run. It’s gonna be bumpy, alright, so try to hang on tight to my balls or something.”

And then those fingers open up, too quick for him to grab to keep from plummeting. He drops through the air into the dark maw from twenty feet up. Smacks onto steeply sloping cotton, and goes tumbling end over end down, down, down until he reaches the bottom. His side is what stops him, cushioned by the blockade of soft and fleshy skin. They’re testicles, both of them individually three times bigger than he is. They move like they’re alive, hugging up a little toward Bucky’s body so that he slips down on his back another couple feet. 

They sag again, settling on top of his thighs and pushing him snug against the wall of fabric behind him. He doubts Bucky even knows they did that, that’s just an automatic involuntary instinct that comes from sensation. Hell, he doubts Bucky even knows Steve’s thigh-deep under his sack right now. He only has a second to look up. 

Directly above his head within arms’ length is the head of Bucky’s dick, soft and at rest, slit closed, the whole thing curving down lazily and pointing at him. He can barely see around it, miles and miles and miles up to Bucky’s eyes and mouth where they almost seem to miss him, searching him out among his privates. 

Steve doesn’t think they even land on him before the other hand slowly closes the exit above him, sealing him in and allowing the fabric-elastic to firmly settle back into place. They’re snug, they hug his privates because that’s what a jock strap is _designed_ to do. It means that the wall of cotton-blend behind him may as well be steel, and that steel pushes him face-first into the seam between Bucky’s testicles. 

For a moment, there’s quiet. 

Then there’s chaos, as a thick unavoidable and probing force _pushes_ against his back. Shoves him deep into the folds of skin and sagging weight, nearly smothering him as they give around him like quicksand. That force at his back shoves him _up_ , then back down again, then back up again. It disappears, and instead the entire _world_ begins to shake. The boulders above him lift, jiggle, then _slam_ back down on top of him with the weight of gravity. He notices those probing digits right before it happens again, the fabric beneath him and the flesh above him shaking and bouncing brutally, jostling him against them and then burying him into them.

It’s just Bucky loosely cupping and bouncing his balls in his hand experimentally. They haven’t even started yet.

That hand moves away, the pressure slackens, and Steve _pushes_ at the flesh he’s buried in to peel himself out again. Gasps down air, sucking it into his chest. Those balls bury him up to chest now, gravity and fondling having drug him deeper down into the crotch of the jock strap. He struggles between them for a hand hold and a foot hold, trying to push-shove-drag-climb over the curve of them and out from underneath of them. They flex a little in response, surrounding his body and reeling him in as they almost sort of pucker, then release again.

Bucky takes his first step, and all that progress is almost gone in an instant. It feels like a swooping rush, the weight above him lessens just a little, and then it _slams_ back down again as his foot hits the ground, jerking him a couple inches down just because of gravity and fabric and the less than solid environment he’s navigating.

That was the left foot. The right one is next, another feeling of soaring, a little raise to the testicle on that side, and then a punishing _thud_ as it slams back down, trying to drag him under. He fights, absolutely _fights_ against the balls above him to try and stay above them, to try and stay on the upper curve of his sack instead of being swept beneath it.

He does alright while Bucky walks around the apartment, a lift-tud, lift-thud boob-boom-boom jostling shaking nightmare.

And then from somewhere around him, above him, everywhere, he hears an absent, “Hold on tight down there, buddy, I’m not stopping if you slip.”

Bucky starts running. It’s fucking chaos. It’s the lift-slam sensation coupled with an entire _shake_ as his whole package jiggles one direction and then another and then back and then the other and then and then and then, never giving Steve enough time to recover. He grabs wildly at skin, scrambles to try and stay above them, gripping and climbing and losing his footing and yelling at the top of his lungs.

It feels good. Knowing Steve’s down there, feeling him squirm around under Bucky’s balls, knowing he’s smothered beneath them and there’s nothing he can do about it. Bucky’s dick starts filling up in no time, further eradicating the space and steepening the slope behind Steve.

Soon enough, he slips up. Can’t grab on in time, and a _slam_ sends him sliding down, down, down beneath Bucky’s sack. He has to turn his head to one side to even be able to breathe, and that’s about all he manages. They’re everywhere. They’re everything, they consume his ceiling and his walls. They press down on his entire body, heavy as hell, pulling him in, slamming down onto his body over and over and over again. There’s no reprieve, no quarter, he has to push and knead them like a fucking kitten to keep skin out of his mouth. 

_Thud, thud, thud, thud_ , they more than body-slam him, they _crush_ him rhythmically. 

And then Bucky starts to sweat. It beads at the pores, it makes the fabric around him damp, and then it makes _him_ damp. It’s humid, and it’s _sweltering_ in here between them, beneath them. He can’t breathe, he can’t do _anything_ other than just _take it_.

Bucky’s run lasts half an hour, and by the time he’s done he’s rock hard at the feeling of those squirming little kneads between his balls.

He leaves Steve there for a while, just because it’s pleasant.


	63. Bucky shoves Steve into his jock pt 2

Every time he shoves Steve down his underwear, Bucky gets a little more obsessed with it. It started out just being an interesting, slightly exciting idea for a place to keep him during runs. After the first one shot straight through him, it became an every-time thing. The thought of it alone – his little toy down there struggling beneath the weight of his balls – that would be enough. But the feeling, Jesus, those little pushes and kicks, squirming around under his sensitive sack? It’s beyond good.

Shoving him under there while he’s running becomes sleeping with him under there, too. He’s hard nearly every minute in either case, but he doesn’t actually act on it at first. Not until one day when he steps out of the shower, starts drying off, and sees Steve standing on the counter about waist-height.

The perfect height to–

Bucky steps up to it, looming a mile over Steve’s head. He can barely crane his neck back far enough to see his expression, but once he manages it he can see dark eyes fixated on him. His attention doesn’t stay up there long, though.

Intrusively in his face all of a sudden is Bucky’s package; mostly-soft clean cock settled on the top portion of mostly hairless balls. All of it suddenly thrust into his personal space without warning.

“Hang onto ‘em.”

“What?” He genuinely doesn’t understand at first. 

Bucky’s patient, but unwavering. “I want you to hang onto my balls. I’m not carrying you anymore, I want you on ‘em at all times.”

“Bucky, I’m not doing that–”

It’s a mistake, and there are immediate consequences. Bucky steps up, and in one fluid motion dips down so that Steve’s knocked flat beneath his testicles. They consume him, practically. Weigh on every part of his body, hefted onto him and pushing him into unforgiving counter.

Bucky lifts off again. Steve sucks in a breath, pushing up onto one elbow and staring up in disbelief. 

“Hang onto my balls, Steve,” he repeats again, tone level, eyes hard.

Steve shakes his head, catches his breath, wheezes, “I’m not doing it. Wait, no–”

They come down on him again, but this time they grind down on him as Bucky rolls gentle circles over his body. He’s there longer this time. All Steve can see is wrinkled skin, velvety-soft but a couple hundred pounds, melding around him in a way that almost feels intrusive. Intimate, for how they press into every square inch of his figure. The grinding feels like it pushes him inch by painful inch up the counter a little, pushing down so hard any air in his lungs is forced out.

By the time Bucky pulls them off of him again, his vision is spotting and he’s lightheaded. When he can see again, the first thing he notices is Bucky’s hand wrapped around his cock, absently stroking. 

“Hang onto my balls, Steve,” he murmurs, and the low tone in his voice suggests he’s fine with this continuing. He’ll do it all night, he’s clearly getting off on it.

Steve manages a meek, “Bucky… please…”

But he’s pulling himself to his feet anyway, slowly and reluctantly approaching them where they sit heavily on the edge of the counter. There he hesitates, staring at deep wrinkles that would make up handholds and footholds, 

From nowhere, a steely push at his back – Bucky’s fingertips, forcing him face-first deep into his sack. When they retreat and he can pull his face out of them, he has just enough time to notice the world moving and grab on desperately as the floor drops out from under him.

He’s clinging to soft, malleable flesh as tightly as he can, staring down a miles-long drop that he’s not sure he’d survive. All he has to keep him from falling are the divots in Bucky’s balls, stretching out a couple of feet to his left and his right, and about two more above him now that his cock is settled again blocking out the rest.

Bucky pauses here, blood rushing down to his cock, and Steve hears a low, thickly rumbled, “Oh, god.”

Steve can’t see his face. Steve can’t see anything except the balls he’s hanging onto and that rapidly hardening cock directly over his head, blocking out the rest of Bucky’s body.

“That’s so goddamn hot,” he hears next, something Bucky seems to have meant for himself. No such thing, at Steve’s scale. Movement out of the corner of his eye has his face turning against the sack, and he catches sight of a massive hand sweeping through the air. He has about two seconds of hope it’s to peel him off, but no. It heads straight for cock again, curling around it and giving it an experimental tug.

Steve’s environment lifts with the upstroke, and he hangs on more tightly. It earns a soft groan, and Bucky strokes down again. His balls drop a little, shake lightly, but it’s not enough to dislodge him.

“Hold on tight, you’re staying on ‘em while I walk around from now on. You’re gonna have to figure that out.”

And that’s the only warning he gets before Bucky starts walking out of the bathroom. The world passes by in a blur of color he only catches out of his peripherals. Every step sends a tremor to the flesh he’s hanging onto, and his grip becomes an absolute death grip. 

He can’t see over Bucky’s curving erection to know it, but Bucky’s peering down to watch him struggle for those first few steps. He’s leaking by the time he makes it to the bedroom. He seriously walks bare-naked through the apartment with Steve clinging to his balls the entire time. 

There’s a sudden rush of gravity that Steve belatedly realizes is Bucky sitting, and there’s no time to move even slightly before the weight of them comes down on him again, pinning him to the chair from feet to chest. Bucky rolls his hips experimentally, shifting forward just an inch or two so his balls roll over Steve’s face and bury him completely.

He shifts back a second later, curling his hand around his dick once again to start jerking off properly. It shakes the weight on Steve, lifting up off his chest enough to breathe during the upstroke and then crushing back down again on the downstroke.

“I still can’t believe it,” Bucky murmurs, stroking out a slow and gentle rhythm as he stares down in wonderment at the guy mostly covered by his testicles. “Look at you, you’re underneath ‘em and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. You realize struggling down there feels amazing right? Jesus, fight it all you want, it feels so good.”

Without warning, he rolls them forward again to cover Steve, and he spends a couple seconds jerking. It’s that same lift-lower experience, except he gets snatches of not having his mouth blocked instead of relief on his chest.

Bucky rolls them back again, and Steve sucks down air.

“I could keep you under my balls for the rest of your life, you know that? Every day, that’s all you do. You’re just under my balls. Running, sleeping, walking, hell, doesn’t matter. I’m gonna leave you there. Fuck, that turns me on so much–”

He rolls forward again, and Steve can feel the rhythm pick up the pace. The sweeping dread in him probably matches the sheer heat running through Bucky as he thinks about the prospect. Waking up beneath them, trapped in cotton underwear, struggling to try and climb them. Crushed under them when Bucky sits, sweating his ass off when Bucky runs, falling asleep down there just to wake up under them again. Every minute of every goddamn day, with Bucky leaving him underneath his balls to make him feel good– or just because it turns him on knowing Steve’s under there. 

He rolls back again, and Steve can see that hand furiously pumping. Thick beads of precum pass down over the head, over the back of Bucky’s knuckles, flying so fast Steve can’t tell his own heartbeat from the rhythm of dead weight bouncing on his chest. 

“Beg me not to, Steve,” he gasps, rolling them forward just for an instant and then back again. “Ask me not to do it.”

“Bucky, please god, don’t.”

“Don’t what, Steve?” He urges breathlessly, fist tight and thick, wet, filthy sounds almost blocking it out as he strokes. 

“Please don’t leave me under your balls, please don’t keep me under there–”

“God- god damn, I’m gonna. I want you squirming under them every minute of every goddamn day, I want you clinging to ‘em while I walk, I want you being under them to be your whole goddamn life. Holy fuck, I’m gonna come so fucking hard–”

His balls start tugging up, going taut, and they’re so encompassing they actually drag Steve off the chair and reel him in between them a little. His struggling-squirming to get out of them is what tips Bucky over the edge, and he comes with a deep, low groan. Hot semen spills over his fist as it furiously strokes his cock, some of it dripping down between his balls to coat Steve’s face.

Bucky jerks through his orgasm, shaking Steve fiercely in between them.

When it’s finally over, Bucky eases off breathlessly, and they gently settle back down on top of him.

They both have time to catch their breath. Any hopes Steve had that all if it had been dirty talk to get himself off are promptly shattered when Bucky hoarsely says, “Grab onto them,” and starts to stand.


	64. Bucky shoves Steve into his jock pt 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> “The thought of you struggling to breathe down there really turns me on”

“The thought of you struggling to breathe down there really turns me on,” Bucky murmurs idly to his briefs. Rather, he says it to the guy inside them, but Bucky’s starting to consider the two things almost one in the same. 

He’s settled back on the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table, television on, and Steve in his new home beneath Bucky’s balls. They settled on him heavily when Bucky sat down, and he’s done absolutely nothing to aid that. He can feel little limbs thrashing, pushing, inadvertently massaging his testicles in a fight to keep them off of his chest and out of his mouth. He likes that. 

He slips a hand down the front of his boxers absently, curling it around his dick and just holding it while it starts to harden. “You used to ‘em yet? Being under there? Been, what, two days and they’re all you’ve seen, right? God, that’s so damn hot. That’s your whole life now, ain’t it? Just squirming around trying to breathe under my balls.”

That really is all Steve’s seen, more or less. There have been showers where Bucky’s set him on the bathroom counter, but like this he doesn’t need to drink or eat or _anything_ like it. He’s really and truly basically a toy. 

Bucky’s mentioned taking even the shower breaks away, too.

“I think you’re getting the hang of it. I think you can cling to ‘em during the shower next time. I want you on ‘em when I wash them.” More accurately, he never wants Steve _off_ of them ever again.

The suffocating weight on top of him begins to bounce, lifting off a few inches for the smallest reprieve as Bucky takes his cock out proper and starts to jerk off – it’s gotta be the fifth or sixth time since he decided to do this. It seems like it takes almost nothing to get him going, just the knowledge that Steve’s under there during certain actions seems to be enough. 

So far, the things that have inspired him to furiously stroke himself off have been waking up, going to sleep, taking a piss, sitting down, driving, and having a conversation with someone. Knowing Steve’s struggling beneath his sack during all that has him rigid in a heartbeat. 

“I’m not sure I’m ever gonna get tired of this,” he muses, bouncing them a little more quickly on top of Steve. “I’m not sure I’m ever gonna take you out from under there. I was thinking– you don’t even really _need_ to breathe, right? You just feel like you need to. That means I could really go to town and I bed you’d kick up a fuss down there. Honest to god, that might be my favorite part, just knowing you’re so deep under ‘em they’re practically suffocating you. Jesus, man, I fucking _love_ it.”

His fist starts flying over his cock, slicked with newly leaking precum. He rolls his hips back a little, enough that he can feel Steve’s little face become uncovered. 

Breathlessly, he orders, “Ask me nicely not to.”

Steve knows the drill. Knows that if he doesn’t comply with this game it’ll only be worse for him in the long run, so he laments to the dark blue fabric ceiling, “Please don’t suffocate me under your balls, Bucky, please let me out.”

“You want me to get you out from under there?” He breathes, furiously jerking, balls hugging up tight to his body signalling he’s getting close.”Ask me.”

“Please take me out from under your balls, please let me out, god, please don’t leave me in here.”

Bucky groans long and low, teetering over the edge, and rasps out, “You’re gonna live under there, I love you under there– god, I’m gonna come–”

His hips push _down_ all of a sudden, crushing Steve into the couch as Bucky grinds on him and spills hot, hard, wet over the fabric of his briefs. His chest rises and falls quickly as he strokes out through the afterglow, absently muttering, “God this was such a good fucking idea.”


	65. Giant Cas and the Bed pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> So a story where Cas starts growing to giant size in his sleep. Initially he and dean were sharing the bed til dean got shoved out by his growing boyfriend, now face to face with his boyfriends giant crotch. Dean yells but cas stays asleep, murmuring in pleasure as something (someone) is rubbed pleasurably between his crotch and the wall as he continues to expand

Cas sleeps like a god damn octopus. It took Dean a lot of getting used to, given his previously solitary lifestyle. Six or eight months of sleepless nights while an angel plastered himself half on top of Dean, arm over his chest, leg slipping between Dean’s. Thank god he wasn’t still at angel strength, or Dean never would have been able to shrug him off.

He got used to it eventually. Started feeling comforted by the weight of half a guy on top of him, bare skin to bare skin, pinning him protectively against the mattress. Puts him out like a light these days, deepest sleep he’s gotten in years.

That’s why he doesn’t notice at first. They’ve upgraded to a king sized bed, Dean’s asleep on his back, Cas is in his usual position nearly on Dean’s chest, and then Cas begins to grow. The weight isn’t all that significant at first, just twenty or thirty pounds – enough to reasonably believe it’s Cas’s upper half curling up around his chest. Another twenty on his thighs, because Dean’s sleeping brain can’t do math.

It isn’t that, though. It’s just one bicep and one thigh expanding outward by inches and then by feet.

What wakes him up is when Cas sleeping pulls him in more, unconsciously trying to settle on top of him like he does every night. Unfortunately, that means actually reeling Dean underneath his hulking mass so that his clavical settles on Dean’s head and Dean’s hips wind up pulled between Cas’s legs. 

_This_ weight, coupled with the movement, is enough to get him shaken awake. He tries to flail on instinct, but his arms are pinned down by one left bicep and Castiel’s entire right side. Sleepy confusion lasts two or three seconds – long enough for another growth spurt to hit, stretching over Dean so that he’s stuck under Cas from sternum to knee. Castiel’s legs are more than off the bed now, hell, his knees are resting on the floor. Dean’s got no idea how in the hell _that_ didn’t wake him up right away.

“Cas–” he croaks, voice sleepy and strained from the weight on his chest. He wriggles his shoulders trying to push up, to no avail. “ _Cas_ –”

His voice is more like a sleepy whisper right now, muffled as it is by distance, skin, and pressure. It lacks urgency, and it evokes only a soft hum and a murmur of, “Dean…”

Dean realizes rather abruptly what part of Cas is pinning down his thighs; mostly because it gets warmer, firmer, and starts to creep up his thigh toward his pelvis. It pushes itself up between Dean’s legs, thick but still soft enough not to crush his junk, thank _god_.

Another growth spurt hits, and Castiel’s head presses against one wall while his feet hit the other. He grumbles sleepily, stretching his body out and absently ramming a heel through the wall. It cracks plaster, breaks drywall, and the whole damn thing gets punched out. Cas apparently doesn’t notice, he just ducks his head and shifts himself so that the bed – and Dean – are tugged more firmly downward beneath his hips.

Cas is destroying the damn house without even realizing it, and he just keeps trying to climb on top of Dean, or pull him– 

“ _Ca-ah-as_ –” He wheezes out, writhing desperately. The cock on top of him responds appreciatively, filling out and flushing, forcing itself up past Dean’s stomach and finally settling fully-hard on his ribs, just a few inches beneath Dean’s chin. Jesus, it’s covering him thigh to chin, it’s _enormous_. Dean can feel his heartbeat, can feel him twitch, and then with a voice like rumbling thunder, another soft, “Dean.”

And then the weight on him shifts, lifting up a little at his thighs, cock reeling down his body roughly – silver lining, it lets him suck in a breath of fresh air.

And then it goes shoving itself right back up again, a little farther this time so that it settles with the tip of Castiel’s dick pressing against his right cheek.

“Oh, hell no–” He manages, struggling with renewed vigor. Fortunately being propped up a little by his cock means Cas isn’t flush on top of him anymore, and his dick isn’t so thick as to cover Dean’s width, so he manages to tug out one arm and then the other. Thank _god_. He presses a palm to either side of Cas’s cock and _shoves,_ grunting out effort as he tries to push the thing off of him.

Above him, Cas _moans_. Once again, those hips peel back so that the head of his dick passes down Dean’s front, down between his legs, nearly off the mattress entirely == and then quickly shoves back up again, passing over stomach, chest, face, all the way up to the top of the mattress. Belatedly, Dean realizes he’s had another growth spurt. He knows it, because he can feel rock hard length from head to toe with no reprieve. The mattress must be perfectly aligned under Cas’s pelvis, cushioning his dick to keep it from hitting rough ground.

The same cannot be said about his head. When he straightens his spine to turn his chin the other way, it cracks through that wall too so that his face is sticking out toward the living room and his feet are partway through the kitchen.

He does not even remotely seem to notice. Seems like his body is aware of only one thing – the mattress beneath his hips, and the guy beneath his dick. 

Cas starts to hump in his sleep, grinding the underside of his cock in slow back-and-forth rhythm against the soft, warm, squirming sensation beneath it. Dean loses almost all ability to call out to him, because there’s a hard weight the size of a fucking person shoving itself up and down his body. It never fully leaves now, it’s too big, the head of that dick only gets to about his thigh before it’s _thrusting_ up again over him to settle the sensitive bundle of nerves beneath the head directly over his face.

It’s slow, but it’s constant. From the belly above him comes a rumbling purr. When Dean pushes up against it now, it’s to try and buy some room to freaking _breathe_. Cas seems to love it, though, because for _one_ brief instant the entire weight above him lifts off. Dean feels two seconds of fleeting hope before it _slams_ back down again, better lined up for comfort maybe, so Cas can start going at it in earnest.

On the next upward thrust, warmth and wetness travels up his torso and then over his goddamn _face_ , leaving him spluttering salty taste out of his mouth. It was a single bead of precum, and it’s the precursor to a hell of a lot more. Cas starts leaking like a fucking tap, bead after bead of it traveling over bulbous head, down the crown, and dripping onto Dean just in time for him to ram himself through it.

It slicks the way, those glides become more effortless, and Cas moans again more loudly, wanton. He leaks so fucking much it not only soaks Dean, it soaks the bed around him. Sheets, mattress, all of it getting drenched over the course of twenty fucking minutes.

Cas just _humps_ , he fucking humps and humps for what feels like eternity. He must not be awake enough or close enough to spill over, it’s just minute after ticking minute of back and forth and back and forth, friction-dragging himself over Dean’s body, rolling his pelvis into an entire soaking wet king sized mattress.


	66. Giant Cas and the Bed pt 2

The good news is that the growing seems to have stopped for the moment. The bad news is that Cas’s arousal hasn’t waned in the slightest over the last half an hour. Dean’s been pressed into the mattress so deeply by Castiel’s rigid erection, the sides of it actually kind of come up around it and ergonomically cushion it to make a pleasant hugging sensation for Cas to fuck into. 

And he does. Repeatedly. 

It’s dark where Dean is. It’d been night outside to begin with, and now Castiel’s entire pelvis domes his vision. There are no walls and no ceiling that aren’t flesh and muscle bearing down on him. What little he can make out pretty much amounts to the head of a dick the size of a fucking tree, and he can only really see it when it travels down his body toward his feet.

He gets about a second or two to see it pressed against his knees and thighs, slit gaping and weeping, before Cas rolls his hips up again and he has to watch it plow over his entire body until it forces his head to the side. It drags all that precum with it, too, constantly smearing it over his skin, keeping him wet and slick.

Some thrusts are shallow and they only make it to his chest two or three times, until one particularly good _throb_ has Cas moaning and shoving forward enthusiastically, dragging his dick more forcefully over Dean’s body.

He picks up speed once and a while, fucking him with a quick rhythm that makes Dean think – actually start to _hope –_ that Cas might finally come and get it over with. He never does, though, and they slow down to nearly a stop as Castiel’s dreams and sleep cycles change. At one point his dick, hard as a fucking rock, just settles over Dean’s entire body and sits there unmoving. No reprieve to the pressure, no change to move his own body, crushed into place by rigid dick that throbs periodically against him. That lasts maybe another twenty minutes before Cas starts up again, drenching the sheets and wearing him out.

Eventually, there is reprieve. Eventually, Castiel’s hips lift up off of him and he can breathe, he can see, he can _move_ – but not for very long. It takes him a few seconds to realize what’s coming after him is a hand, and he doesn’t manage to get anywhere before Cas is snaking it in between his hips and the floor.

Blunt fingertips wrap around both his cock and the man under it, as well as the soaking fucking wet sheets. It lifts Dean up a few feet off the bed, and it presses him face first flush against the underside of Castiel’s dick – he’s pretty familiar with that already.

The sheets separate his back from Castiel’s fingers, they drape over him from head to toe, soaking wet, plastered against him. He’s basically cocooned against his partner’s dick, making it impossible for him to wriggle out between any gaps in Castiel’s knuckles.

And then Cas starts to jack off.

In a way, it’s worse than the bed. There he’d been stationary, he wasn’t tangled in sheets, and there was really only one kind of consistent pressure. Not anymore. He’s dragged up the middle of a shift, passing over thick vein and sensitive nerves until he’s practically bent over the head of it by the force of Castiel’s manipulating fingers. Squeezed there and circled against it, then drug back down it again. 

Castiel’s moans are practically deafening.The sheets add even more to the experience, they eradicate the friction from his own hand and give him a silky-smooth backdrop to this warm and squirming thing he doesn’t even realize he’s holding. He barely even realizes he’s jerking off, most of his brain still offline and refusing to turn back on – he’d just been so fucking _hard_ for so long that he _needed_ to come before he could fall back asleep.

He didn’t even bother to roll over. Just grabbed his cock and started stroking it. 

The speed picks up. The hand tightens. Dean’s absolutely _crushed_ against it and drug up and down against steely erection. He can feel how much Cas loves it, he can tell by every hard jolt that thrusts against him, every tightening up of those fingers to meet a spike of pleasure, every fresh gush of precum that he’s rubbed against when he’s dragged back up to the head of it.

Cas grinds every last bit of pleasure out of everything Dean can give him. Shakes him so fast and so rough he can’t see anymore, can’t think, the only thing in his brain is the passing of flesh over his body as Cas loses himself in jerking off, chasing orgasm.

There’s a sharp groan, a quick tighten, a furious chaotic series of jacks, and then he _comes_ at the top of an upstroke, with Dean curled forward over the head for the first hot gush before he’s pulled back down again. He’s stroked up in time for the second, and then the third, and then the fourth like Cas’s upstrokes are what pull each crashing wave out.

The sheet catches most of it, trapping it inside with him. It cascades over his body, nearly drowns him with the force of it shooting out at one point, and then his hand slows as his orgasm begins to fade.

There’s no reprieve, no chance to escape. As soon as the last bit of it is wrung out, Castiel releases himself and settles back down again. Dean’s back where he started, under a half-hard cock but now with thick inches and inches of semen wetting everything around him.

Something shifts again. Something moves. Expands.

Castiel never goes soft because angels don’t have a refractory period – and he’s _growing_ again.


End file.
